


Given To Impulse Decisions

by Jendy



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - The Hales Survive The Fire, Good Peter Hale, M/M, Soft Peter Hale, Soft Until He Isn't Anymore, The Hale Family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2019-11-14 00:51:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18042305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jendy/pseuds/Jendy
Summary: Stiles is often given to impulse decisions. Eating his weight in curly fries because he wants to see if it's actually possible? Oh yeah. Buying the last two dozen chocolate-fudge-surprise donuts because a kid was screaming at his mom in the bakery that he wanted them? There's no stopping him. Dragging his best friend out into the woods in the middle of the night to see a dead body? Heck yes.Going on a blind date with one guy but then sleeping with the heavily scarred older man he meets in the bar even though he knows he's Peter Fucking Hale™, whose reputation for violence is only overshadowed by the air of mystery that surrounds the entire Hale family?Oops?-Or-Stiles goes on a failed blind date, picks up someone else, and there is ensuing supernatural drama.





	1. Yes, Please

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles goes on a blind date with one guy, but goes home with another.

Stiles  _knows_ this is a bad idea.  
  
A horrendously bad idea.  
  
A terrible, no good, explicitly awful idea but  _oh my God this man's tongue is going to kill me.  
_  
Said tongue is currently shoved in Stiles' mouth and doing wicked, dirty things to his own tongue and absolutely wrecking his concentration.  
  
Which is okay, really, sign him up for a lifetime subscription, please and thank you!  
  
Stiles whines, _whines,_ and the man chuckles darkly in response, and oh, those are hands on his ass, and those hands are lifting him, and he wraps his long legs around a thick, sturdy waist, his arms around a nicely muscled neck, and he's being carried to the bed.  
  
He's lowered with surprising gentleness and the bed feels like a fluffy cloud that envelopes him in sinful softness. He reluctantly loosens his octopus-grip when his Bad Idea ends the mind-blowing kiss.  
  
Peter Hale only pulls away enough to shuck his shirt, his blue eyes bright and almost glowing as they fixate on Stiles. Stiles can't look away, transfixed in a way he can't explain, prey to Peter's predator, and he fucking  _loves it._  
  
Peter smirks and Stiles can feel his heart stutter in response.  
  
"I'm going to _wreck you_ , sweetheart," he growls out.  
  
"Yes, please."  
  
***  
  
The bar Stiles walks into is not his usual kind of hangout. It's quieter, for one, with only a handful of patrons in the whole place, plus one bartender. There's music, blandly pumped through the sound system at a low level, enough to be background noise but not enough to disrupt conversation. Definitely not like the dance clubs he usually likes to tear through like a flailing, gangly tornado pretending to dance. There's not a drag queen or cloud of glitter in sight, and that's frankly a let down.  
  
But, he's supposed to be there for a date. A blind date. Where he hopes his date is actually blind because the decent lighting in this place is going to do nothing to cover the bags under his eyes courtesy of his long shifts working the desk at the station coupled with his long nights studying for exams. But hey, Scott knows this guy, goes to school with him, so surely he understands the life of the overworked college student? Scott wouldn't set him up with someone who wouldn't understand that undereye baggage is non-negotiable.  
  
(Except he totally would. Not intentionally, but he would.)  
  
He's at least wearing his nicest button-up and a pair of jeans that, according to Coco-one of the many amazing drag queens that works at The Jungle- make his ass look amazing. At the last second he'd thrown on his only waistcoat, because his last girlfriend told him he looked incredibly fuckable in waistcoat and jeans. That's his goal for the night, anyway, even if Scott wants him to find True Love™. Not that he's not open to the idea, but he's realistic.  
  
Stiles spots two men at the bar, one at either end, six stools between them. The closest one has his back to the door, but the stiff set of his shoulders clearly says Stay Away, so he heeds the warning and looks at the farthest.   
  
That guy is leaning back against the bar and is looking straight at Stiles. He's good-looking in a bland sort of way, attractive but nothing to write home about. Not that Stiles feels like he has much to boast about, so he decides he needs to tone down the judgment until he gets a grasp of the guy's personality, which according to Scott is "nice." He hopes this guy is actually nice and not in a Nice Guy way. He's had enough Nice Guys to last him a lifetime, thank you. Scott, being straight, has never had to deal with Nice Guys, so he doesn't really know the signs.  
  
Scott hadn't given Stiles a picture, just told him his classmate, Jeremy, would meet him at Brass Rail Bar & Grille on Devon Street at 5:30 on Thursday.  
  
Taking a deep breath, Stiles approaches the bar and his potential blind date, drumming up a smile. He takes the stool next to Maybe-Jeremy and opens his mouth to say hello when the guy beats him to it.  
  
"You look better in the picture Scott sent me."  
  
Aaaaaaand nope. Nope. Not doing this.  
  
"Well, you look worse than the one he _didn't_ send me."  
  
Jeremy doesn't scowl, per se, but is expression isn't pleasant. He seems to be trying to wrap his brain around Stiles relatively simple comeback, and Stiles sighs because he doesn't want to deal with this. He could be home studying, but he'd been hopeful for a bit of a distraction from the two final exams he has on Monday and then his graduation the following weekend and the mountain of student loans waiting at the end of his education tunnel and-  
  
"So are we doing this or not?"  
  
Oh, Jeremy is speaking.  
  
"Doing what?"  
  
"Look, you don't have to do the whole 'hard to get' thing, are we going to head back to my place or not?" Jeremy is definitely scowling now.  
  
And Stiles had agreed to the whole blind date thing because he wanted to get laid, not because he expected an epic romance or anything. But he also expects at least the bare minimum of wooing before he decides to do the do with a willing dude. A couple drinks, a bit of conversation, some heavy flirting, is that too much to ask?  
  
Apparently.  
  
"Or not."  
  
"Well this was a waste of my fucking time," Jeremy snarks out. Stiles starts to back away from the bar, but the douche snags his wrist. "I've got better twinks than you gagging for it-"  
  
"I highly doubt that."  
  
Stiles flails a bit in surprise when the voice comes from behind him, and his flails dislodge Jeremy's grip. He turns and freezes when he meets the gaze of the bluest eyes he's ever seen.  
  
Peter Fucking Hale™ is standing right behind him, casually leaning against the bar. He was the dude previously at the other end of the bar, closer to the door. The dude Stiles didn't recognized at first because he hadn't seen the scars.  
  
Everybody in Beacon Hills knows about Peter Fucking Hale. About how his family home burned down while they were having a family dinner, but he was the only reason his entire family didn't burn down with it. He'd been late getting to the monthly Hale family dinner when Gerard and Kate argent set fire to it, and he'd called authorities as he was on his way home because he could see the flames from outside the Preserve that shrouded the Hale house. If he hadn't, he would have lost his mother and father and his sisters and their children.  
  
When the police and the fire department reached the blazing remains of the house, they followed a trail of bodies, heavily armed men that looked like they'd been torn apart. Then they found the Hale family outside with Gerard Argent training a gun on them.  He was shot instantly by Deputy Noah Stilinski. (Later, when questioned why he didn't try to de-escalate the situation, Noah would be quoted as saying, "He had his gun trained on their youngest, who's my son's age. That wasn't a man who was going to be reasoned with.") He lived. (Not for long.)  
  
Peter was found just inside the house along with Kate Argent's body. Official reports say that the windows and doors were barred to keep the family from escaping the fire and that Peter, in a fit of rage and desperation, already having been shot by Kate, picked her up and used her as a human battering ram to open the front door. Then he'd braved the flames to reach his family and help them get out the door only to be shot, again, by Gerard Argent who had been at the back of the house to guard the back door.  
  
Peter was pulled out of the fire just in time for the second floor to crash down on top of him and the fireman carrying him. The fireman had protective gear to minimize damage. Peter did not.  
  
Within hours, the whole town of Beacon Hills was talking about the Hales and the Argents. Peter was the heroically tragic figure, in a medically induced coma while his burns healed. His sister, Talia Hale, her husband, Michael, and her children, Laura, Derek, and Cora, moved in with Talia and Peter's parents while the investigation was ongoing. It seemed like an open-and-closed deal. The Argents were obviously crazy and the Hales were simply the unfortunate victims that crossed their paths.  
  
Then the bodies started piling up.  
  
First was a guy working at the video store. He was found slaughtered in the woods. He had been arrested before for arson. Conveniently in his pocket were bank statements with deposits from an account with ties to Argent Arms.   
  
Then a man named Reddick was found in a similar state, only he was sitting at his computer, throat ripped out. His online banking account was open evidence similar to the video store clerk, and a search of his ratty apartment turned up more than a few implements that could be tied to the Hale house fire.  
  
Police found out Reddick had connections to a man named Unger, who had been recently release from prison for- you guessed it- arson, but before they could collect him alive, they got a frantic phone call from a jogger saying they saw a man that looked like a burn victim ripping out Unger's throat through the window of his SUV.  
  
Reddick's death started rumors about Peter Hale waking up from his coma and taking revenge against anybody connected to the fire. It was an easy assumption; a burn victim killing a known arsonist with connections to the fire that nearly killed his family? It could  _only_ be Peter Hale.  
  
Only, Peter Hale was still in a coma. Police figured the jogger was just traumatized.  
  
Still, the rumors spread. With how savagely the men were killed, people started painting a picture of vigilante justice; Peter Hale, having already developed a reputation as a hard-edge businessman who wasn't above getting his hands dirty, became a sort of Batman figure to the locals. Rising from his coma long enough to seek justice and exacting it in the bloodiest ways. And because he was clearly killing criminals, nobody could be particularly fussed that he was doing it. The Hale family was questioned, of course, but they had air-tight alibis.  
  
Then more details came to light. It turned out a teacher at Beacon Hills High School, one Mr. Adrian Harris, had previously had a date with Kate Argent in a bar and had given her a lecture on how to get away with arson as some disturbing way of impressing her; the date only happened because he knew her from the school where she worked as a substitute teacher under the name Kate McKinley. A few months before the Hale fire she had subbed for an English class Derek Hale attended. He didn't realize she was the Kate Argent on the news until he saw a picture and he went forward to police to confess what he had done. People half-expected for his body to be discovered later. Instead, he quietly resigned from his position as a teacher, moved out of state, and was never seen or heard from again.   
  
With the newfound evidence, it was concluded that Kate and Gerard Argent had been conspiring for months to murder the Hale family, getting close to them through Derek.  
  
The deaths of the arsonists and a few others with connections to the Argents happened over the course of a few months. Gerard Argent was still in the hospital; recovery from his gunshot wound was complicated by the discovery that he had an aggressive form of cancer. He was kept under heavy surveillance and guard so he could stand trial once he was able. But in the meantime, assets in his company were frozen and a federal investigation swooped down and started dismantling his empire. His son, Chris Argent, was found clean of any connection to the events of the fire, having been across the country. However, he also denied wanting anything to do with his father. The Argent name was mud. At that point, if Gerard didn't get locked away for the rest of his life or miraculously survive the cancer eating away at his body, he still would have nothing to his name.  
  
When he died, it was with less gore than anticipated. On a routine bed-check, it was discovered that he had been smothered with a pillow; however, his mouth was stuffed full of purple flowers. Nobody had gone in through the door and surveillance in the hall showed that the police never moved. Someone went in through the window but left no trace.  
  
Peter Hale was still in a coma; the police checked.  
  
When he woke up a month later, he was suitably weak and confused. No way could he have been responsible for the murders of attempted murderers. Beacon Hills PD quietly stopped pursuing the cases.  
  
Over time, the rumors died down. However, public opinion of Peter Hale was that of respectful terror. Everybody just  _knew_ he was responsible for the murders, and even if people agreed they would have sought revenge for their families as well, they were still wary around him.  
  
More confusing, however, was Peter's own family and how they treated him. One would think you would do anything you could to welcome the family hero back to the land of the living. Because of him, his whole family survived what could have been an immense tragedy at the expense of his own life.  
  
The majority of the Hales moved away, leaving Peter behind.  
  
Why would they leave him behind?  
  
Stiles will never admit, even under pain of death, that he'd had an obsession with the Hale fire and the subsequent murders as a kid; only a year and a half after his mother's death, he'd needed  _something_ to focus on and his father's habit of bringing work home had given him the something he needed. His obsession had garnered quite a few arguments between himself and his father, recently elected as Beacon Hills very own Sheriff. It had led to counselling sessions that were pure torture; just to avoid going to them, he gave up his blatant obsession.  
  
His inner curiosity over it could never be satisfied, however. He still wondered, he just didn't voice his wonder out loud.  
  
Like anyone else, he'd catch glimpses of Peter Hale around town. His scars were hard to miss. Over time, they somewhat healed, and surely he'd had a surgery or two, but the damage from the fire had been severe.  Before the fire, everyone had regarded Peter as something of a vain, proud peacock; after, he was still proud and charismatic, but there was a newer, more dangerous edge to him. The scars made him seem scarier than even the vigilante rumors did.  
  
He still conducted business for the Hale family, still wasn't afraid to get his hands dirty. But now he was the town mystery. And as Stiles got older and realized he like girls  _and_ boys, Peter Hale became something of a crush for him.  
  
"Who the hell are you?"  
  
Stiles snaps out of his retrospect when Jeremy speaks. Time had slowed down for the few moments he'd been staring into Peter Hale's eyes and he feels his face heating up and he hopes no one notices, because yeah, his schoolboy crush on the town Batman figure was definitely still viable.  
  
By the small smirk forming on Peter's face, he  _does_ notice because of course Stiles needs that extra bit of humiliation to add to this wonderful day.  
  
"Need me to get rid of him for you?" Peter asks, not even acknowledging Jeremy, still looking at Stiles.  
  
"I mean, I wouldn't say no," comes pouring out of his mouth instead of the "I can handle it" his brain had planned. And also, where the hell does his voice get off coming out so damn breathy, he did  _not_ mean to sound so flirty.  
  
"I'll only do it if you say yes, sweetheart."   
  
"Well, consent  _is_ important." Stiles can't look away, doesn't want to, and for the first time in his life he swears he feels butterflies in his stomach. Yes, he was obsessed with Peter Hale as a kid, crushed on the idea of him, but it had faded with time and age; he never would have expected such an instant flair of attraction to a man who he'd never actually had contact with.  
  
"It certainly is." And shit, those pretty blue eyes look even brighter for a moment, and Peter is  _definitely_ flirting with him because that smirk has morphed into a very pleased smile. "I suppose I'll have to work hard to earn a yes."  
  
Stiles can't help an answering smile, is about to flirt back, when his shoulder is gripped hard and he's spun back towards Jeremy, who, seriously is that damn forgettable. Or maybe Peter is just that freaking hypnotizing, or-  
  
"Don't ignore me, you little-"  
  
Peter moves around Stiles so quickly and grabs the hand he used to touch Stiles and has bent it backwards. Stiles hears a snap, and then, BAM, Jeremy is on the ground, clutching at what looks like a broken wrist.  
  
Stiles stares at Jeremy for only a moment, already not caring about the asshole getting his comeuppance, and he latches his gaze back onto Peter.  
  
"I want to climb you like a tree," he says decisively.  
  
Peter laughs, but it's not a cruel laugh. It's pleased-sounding, and it  _does things_ for Stiles, okay? He would be happy to spend the rest of his life doing anything he can to get Peter laughing like that and  _oh my god I am getting ahead of myself,_ Stiles thinks.  
  
"I think that can be arranged. Want to start by getting out of here, maybe getting something to eat?" And oh, does Peter... does Peter look apprehensive? Does he think Stiles is going to say no? Stiles has already decided he's going to be so easy for this man, he doesn't even need to get dinner, they could just move straight to the nearest flat surface out of the public view, but the object of his young fantasies is  _asking him to dinner?_  
  
He should probably say no. The little voice in the back of his head that sounds suspiciously like Scott is telling him that Peter Fucking Hale is trouble, is too old for him, is just a bad idea in general.  
  
But he just absolutely feels like that little Scott-voice is dead wrong.  
  
"Yes, please."  
  
***  
  
Dinner with Peter Hale is a gaddamn  _revelation,_ okay? In so many ways.  
  
One, Stiles has  _never_ had a date pull out all the stops like this. Stiles had walked to the bar, so Peter offers to drive them to a restaurant; he doesn't balk at Stiles firing off a text to let Scott know where he was going, who he was with, and what his license plate number was, just praises him for smart thinking. He opens the passenger door for Stiles like a gentleman getting into and out of the car (and seriously, the guy drives a gorgeous silver Bentley with butter-soft leather seats that almost make Stiles moan when he slides into place.), holds the door to the restaurant for him, pulls out his freaking chair for him? What even the hell, his past dates were seriously lacking, and any future dates he had were going to have a high bar to overcome.  
  
Two, Peter Hale is fucking funny as hell, and Stiles would never have expected that. He comes off as broody and edgy, sinister even, but not  _funny._ He is, though. He makes little quips, keeps up with Stiles' pop culture references, drops some truly awful puns; he's a little mean sometimes, but so is Stiles, and it just works for him, so so much.  
  
Three, Peter can pronounce Stiles' real name.  
  
"So 'Stiles' is a unique name," he says.  
  
Stiles just snorts. "Not as unique as my given name. My given name is the result of drunk Polish Scrabble. Most people can't pronounce it, so I go by 'Stiles.'"  
  
Peter looks thoughtful. "I've traveled extensively through Europe for business. I could give it a shot."  
  
Laughing, Stiles pulls out his ID and slides it across the table. "Knock yourself out."  
  
Peter studies the card for only a few moments and then, "Mieczysław." It just tumbles out of his mouth, easily as you please, and Stiles' stomach clenches in response. The last person to  _ever_ say his given name was his mother; even his dad just calls him "Stiles", has called him that since Stiles was little. 

"I've upset you," Peter says softly. "That wasn't my intention."  
  
"No, I'm... not upset." Stiles takes a breath. "The last person to ever say my name was... was my mother. It was a surprise, is all."  
  
"A good surprise?"  
  
And, yes. Yes it is. Stiles feels a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Yes."  
  
Dessert follows dinner, and Peter takes him to the frozen custard stand by the park. It's impromptu and so fucking cute, because dinner was at one of the pricier restaurants in town (Stiles felt no shame in letting Peter pay) that would have carefully plated and presented a single sliver of overpriced but delicious confection of some sort. Ice cream is so much better.  
  
Especially because Peter asks for extra sprinkles. On his already ridiculous Super Chunky Peanut Butter Fudge Sundae with extra whipped cream and extra cherries on top. He's not the least bit embarrassed about his choice and is straight faced asking for the rainbow sprinkles.  
  
"You're adorable," Stiles blurts out, and he absolutely means it. Peter Fucking Hale is the most adorable fucking thing he's seen in ever, with his apparent gigantic sweet tooth and his dumb adorable rainbow sprinkles.  
  
Luckily Peter just laughs. "That's not a word people usually use to describe me, sweetheart."  
  
Stiles won't lie to himself; he likes it when Peter calls him "sweetheart." It doesn't feel demeaning coming from him, doesn't feel patronizing. The word settles and burns warmly inside him.  
  
"Well, it's true. Anybody that orders rainbow sprinkles like that is immediately adorable."  
  
He snorts. "I would like to remind you I  _did_ just break a man's wrist less than two hours ago. I would think that would garner me a more majestic adjective than 'adorable.'"  
  
Stiles grins around his spoonful of Strawberry Cheesecake Delight. "Oh, really, like what?"  
  
Peter puffs himself up, obviously posing, and it's dorky, but because it's Peter Fucking Hale, it's also really fucking hot. Seriously. "Oh, I don't know: noble, chivalrous-"  
  
"Don't forget 'humble'!"  
  
"-brave, fearsome-"  
  
"Little bit cocky."  
  
"Nothing little about it, darling."  
  
Stiles nearly chokes on his next bite of ice cream. Peter laughs, low and deep, and Stiles flushes, can't help a quick glance down at the man's tailored pants.   
  
"Prove it," comes falling out of his mouth without his consent, and he can tell his face is on fire, but never say Stiles was one to back down even from his own ill-advised throwdowns.  
  
Suddenly Peter is very much in his space, and the heat from his body has to be melting what's left of Stiles' ice cream because it makes  _him_ want to melt into a puddle.  
  
"Oh, sweetheart, I hope you mean that," Peter says lowly, right against Stiles' ear, and he's nosing gently down his neck, not kissing, just inhaling, and oh, yes, Stiles means it  _very much indeed._  
  
"Yes, please."  
  
***  
  
Stiles doesn't remember much of the drive to Peter's apartment. That's either because he spends the entire time staring at Peter or because Peter's hand never leaves his thigh and it's super distracting.  
  
He also doesn't remember much of the trip into the building because Peter's hand is placed on the small of his back and he can feel the heat of him through the fabric of his shirt and waistcoat; the warmth tingles up his spine and he wants it  _everywhere_.  
  
The elevator ride up to the top floor is also a blur because Peter  _finally_ kisses him and hooooo-boy that's nice and it's all he can remember. More than nice. Amazing. Mind-blowing. Fucking  _phenomenal, 10 out of 10 would kiss again.  
  
_And again.  
  
And at least once more, for good measure.  
  
Peter kisses... intently. Like it's his sole focus. He cups his hands around Stiles' head, cradling his skull in his warm grip, and Stiles' closes his eyes in anticipation because there's something very secure in the way Peter holds him. He half-expects Peter to slam him up against the wall of the elevator, but he just crowds close and holds him in place. Then they're kissing.  
  
It's a firm press at first. Then little pecks. Then a longer, open-mouthed kiss. And then Stiles feels like he might combust because Peter introduces his tongue with long, sure swipes into his mouth. Stiles moans in the back of his throat and his legs suddenly feel like jelly. Peter's hands release his head only to travel down and pull their bodies flush together. Stiles can  _feel_ Peter's dick pressing against him now and  _yessss that is definitely something he needs to get his mouth on soon.  
  
***  
  
_"I'm going to wreck you, sweetheart," Peter growls out.  
  
"Yes, please." God, yes yes yes yes yes, so much yes!  
  
Peter crawls over him with the sensual slide of a predator's grace, smirking down at him. "So polite. I wonder what it will take for you to beg..."  
  
Stiles can't help arching up to him at the thought, and his cock throbs painfully in his jeans. He needs to be naked like  _yesterday._ Peter laughs, low and growly and ung, it is such a delicious sound.  
  
"Oh, you like that do you?" And  _shit_ Stiles did not mean to say that out loud.  
  
Which he just also said out loud.  
  
"Please don't stop on my account, sweetheart. I'm enjoying the commentary." Peter cages him with his body and lowers himself in a slow roll against Stiles' body. "I can't wait to see how much it takes to make you forget how to speak." He kisses Stiles before he can respond, and okay, Stiles is so on board with that.  
  
When they come up for air, it seems like it's been an eternity. Stiles lost his waistcoat somewhere between the door and the bed, but he's still in his shirt and jeans and Peter has undone half the buttons of his shirt with swift fingers, one-handed. But he lets out a growl and glares at the offending buttons. "How attached are you to this shirt, darling?"  
  
Oh please let this be going where he thinks it's going. "Not even a little tiny bit."  
  
Peter grins. "Good." He gets on his knees, grasps both sides of Stiles' shirt, and  _yanks.  
  
_The rest of the buttons go flying, the sleeves tear at the shoulder, and Stiles laughs in delight because, oh my god that was ridiculous and hot. God, when was the last time Stiles laughed in bed with someone. Had he ever? It makes him giddy.  
  
Peter laughs in return. "Glad you approve, sweetheart. Jeans?"  
  
"I have it on good authority they make my ass look fantastic, but if you can shred them I probably won't cry."  
  
"Your ass does look fantastic, but I'll make it up to you if you do cry. Thoroughly. Many times. In many positions." He punctuates his words with kisses and little nips down Stiles' sternum and belly, pausing briefly to nuzzle at his treasure trail. Then Stiles is once again treated to the sound of ripping fabric as Peter actually  _shreds_ his jeans from his body.  
  
"Fuck, yes, you can destroy my entire fucking wardrobe if you want, why is that so fucking hot?!" he stutters out as Peter crouches triumphantly over him, staring down at his prize.  
  
Stiles has a brief moment of insecurity. He knows he's got a certain look about him that people either really love or really don't. And sitting there only in his black boxer briefs with the hottest specimen of a man he's  _ever_ been even partially naked with, he hopes he's even a little bit appealing and-  
  
"Gorgeous boy," Peter says. He follows his words up with possessive hands stroking slowly over miles of pale, mole-dotted skin and a hot mouth with nipping kisses come close behind them. "Can't wait to mark you up, make you moan, make you mine." Peter latches his mouth onto one of Stiles' nipples, which have never been particularly sensitive before, but under Peter's mouth Stiles is a writhing mess in a few moments. "So pretty, I bet you bruise spectacularly."  
  
What insecurity? No insecurity here, nope, no siree.  
  
Peter starts another trail of kisses down his body and Stiles arches into them. Then the man fucking  _nuzzles_ at Stiles' cock in his underwear and takes a deep breath. Oh, is he... is he smelling Stiles' cock?  
  
"Yes, and you smell divine, darling."  
  
Shit, he needs to stop speaking every thought out loud. "Oh, well, carry on then."  
  
"Don't mind if I do." Peter laughs against his cock and the vibrations and the heat of his breath feel amazing. "These are nice, but someone as pretty as you must look stunning out of them." He reaches for the waistband of Stiles' underwear-  
  
"You should see me in red lace."  
  
-and freezes, his eyes snapping up to stare at Stiles in surprise; the surprise melts into intense hunger and Stiles could swear his eyes  _glow_ a brighter blue for just a moment.  
  
"Oh, sweetheart, I  _can't wait."  
  
_He hastily removes Stiles' underwear and without preamble swallows down his cock to the root.  
  
Stiles yelps and can't help bucking his hips. Peter brings up an arm and slaps it across his hips to anchor him to the bed, making Stiles whimper. Peter's mouth is heaven; hot and wet and just the right side of almost too much, but god it's so fucking good, and perfect and Peter is slowly bobbing his head and-

Peter pulls up, releasing Stiles' dick with an obscene sound. Good thing, too, because Stiles was so close to coming much sooner than he wanted to. "You're still coherent, darling. I must not be trying hard enough." He strokes Stiles' cock slowly but firmly.  
  
"No, no, please, you're perfect, please, please, please, keep doing that-"  
  
"Begging is a good look on you, lovely boy." Peter drops a kiss on Stiles' hip, over one of the moles that dots his skin like constellations. "Now, how would you like to come the first time? In my mouth? On my cock? In my ass?"  
  
Stiles' mind blanks out for a moment at that last thought. "You.. you'd let me..." It's not that Stiles has never fucked another guy before, it just happens so rarely, especially not with someone like Peter. Not that he's ever been with someone like Peter, mind.  
  
"Definitely. Your cock is perfect, and I quite enjoy receiving as much as giving. Is that what you want, sweet boy? Do you want to fuck my ass with this perfect cock?" He gives said cock a very firm squeeze and lays an indecent, wet kiss on the head, licking away the taste of precum from his lips after.  
  
And shit, yes, that is so tempting, but from the moment Peter first kissed him and held him close, all Stiles can think about is being fucked by him.  
  
"Later, that later. Want you to fuck me,  _please._ " And by all the powers invested in his comic book collection,  _there would be a later._  
  
Peter lets out a growl- and seriously, how is the guy doing that, he's like legit growling like a beast- and surges up to claim Stiles' mouth in a biting, bruising kiss.  
  
"It would be my pleasure," he says when the kiss ends. "Can I turn you over, baby? Get you ready for me?"  
  
Stiles whimpers and nods. It feels like his bones have melted, but with Peter's help he flips to his stomach, then pushes up to his knees. His arms don't want to work, so he presses his chest down, presenting himself to Peter.  
  
"My good boy. You're so beautiful, so eager." Hot palms slide from Stiles' shoulder blades to the globes of his ass. "And this is perfect, even without the jeans." Peter gives a squeeze to each cheek as well as a playful smack that makes Stiles moan.  
  
So Stiles is learning something new about himself; he's never realized how much of a praise kink he had til this moment. Every "good boy" or "perfect" that falls from Peter's lips makes something warm settle deep in his bones and it's a bit frightening to him how much he  _likes it._ He can't remember when was the last time someone was just so focused on him.  
  
He thrusts his ass back further, whimpering for more.  
  
"Hold still for just a moment, baby. I'm going to grab the lube and some condoms."  
  
Peter gets off the bed, and Stiles turns his head to see him go to the bedside table and grab said items; he also takes the time to strip himself of his jeans, and  _guh_ the man is just... so much.  
  
The light from the windows is dim but Peter is the type to look good in any lighting. He pauses under Stiles' scrutiny, and Stiles catalogs his expression carefully, because he looks worried for just a moment. It's such a brief flash of emotion that Stiles wonders if he really saw it.  
  
Peter's scars are not insignificant. They travel from the right side of his face, down his neck, and curl around his arm and half his torso. They're as healed as they probably can be, but in no way do they detract from the way the man is cut like a Greek god or from the power and confidence that has surrounded him all evening. Stiles kind of wants to map his entire body with his mouth; twice over just to make sure he doesn't miss a spot. And yeah, that is a nice thought, having his mouth all over Peter's everything. Especially his dick.  
  
His dick, which is hard and curved and twitches under Stiles' scrutiny. He's uncut, and Stiles has never seen an uncut cock in person before, but it's definitely willing to find out if he likes it. It has a decent length but it is  _thick_ and Stiles' already has plans to choke himself on it as soon as possible.  
  
"Whatever you're thinking, please feel free to follow through with it." Peter sets the supplies down by Stiles' knee as he crawls back onto the bed.  
  
Stiles shudders with want as Peter settles back behind him. "Wanna suck your cock next round."  
  
Warm, firm hands start kneading Stiles' ass cheeks.  
  
"Baby, that sounds like a fantastic idea. Almost as good as eating you out right now."  
  
Wait, wha-  
  
Oh, that is a tongue, running across his hole.  
  
He yelps in surprise but can't move away because Peter has a firm grip on his hips now. His tongue is making slow, patient swipes across his hole, warm and wet, that is lighting a fire up his spine and wiping out his higher brain functions. And then Peter firms up his tongue and starts centering it onto his hole and oh  _fuck. Fuck, fuck, FUCK.  
  
_"I take it no one has ever done this for you before?" Peter sounds smug as fuck, but he earned it, gold star, would be glad to sit on his face because that mouth is made to be dirty. "You say the sweetest things." And then Peter buries his face in Stiles' ass and goes to town.  
  
Stiles, for the most part, is reduced to a whimpering, whining mess within a few minutes. Peter is  _thorough,_ okay? And good. Divine. Enthusiastic. Stiles could probably go on and on if he had any brain function left.  
  
Then Peter introduces his fingers, liberally covered in lube. Does he have a homing signal for Stiles' prostate? Because it seems like he finds it with way too much ease, and it's not long before Stiles is right on the knife edge of coming with his cock untouched. And it's not like he's not familiar with his own ass, because he absolutely is. His collection of dildos and vibrators is wide in its variety, and he has spent many a night exploring himself. He likes orgasms as much as anyone else. But earth-shattering orgasms? Those don't happen often enough on his own, let alone with a partner. One finger, two, three fingers, steadily scissoring him open between swipes of his hot tongue, and Stiles feels his balls start to tighten up, sparks start flashing behind his tightly closed eyes and -  
  
"Wait!"  
  
Peter freezes instantly.  
  
"Wait, wait, wait."  
  
"Do I need to stop, darling? Are you okay?" Peter starts to withdraw his fingers. And, okay, so Stiles feels warmth bloom inside him at the concern in Peter's voice, because he's absolutely sure that if he called a complete stop to everything right now, Peter would abso-fucking-lutely listen and stop. But he doesn't want to stop. Hell fucking no!  
  
"No, no, no, you're good. Good... Too good. Wanna come on your cock. Please, please, please." He's breathless and definitely rambling, and he's not sure if he's coming across clearly enough.  
  
He can feel Peter relax, and a delicate kiss is placed on the small of his back. "Oh, sweetheart. It would be my absolute pleasure."  
  
He hears the crinkle of the condom wrapper, the sound of lube being slicked across latex. And then the press of a cock between the cheeks of his ass.  
  
Peter gives a few experimental thrusts like this, just brushing the head against Stiles' hole on every pass. He seems like he's waiting on something.  
  
"I'll only do it if you say yes, sweetheart."  
  
His tone is playful, but strained. His hands are holding Stiles' hips in a firm, bruising grip and Stiles can feel tension traveling down Peter's forearms. He's controlled power incarnate, leaning over Stiles, waiting for permission. Pfft, like Stiles' would say no!  
  
"Yes, please!"  
  
***  
  
Stiles has gotten fucked before, but it was mediocre at best. College was less a time for experimentation and more a time for him to stress-cram for finals, eat his weight in food he wouldn't let his dad even look at, and wonder why the fuck he decided to get a double-major in Ancient World History and Mythology and Folklore. His experiences in getting fucked definitely involved orgasms, but usually after his partner came and he had to take himself in hand.  
  
Peter Fucking Hale ain't got time for mediocre fucking, apparently.  
  
His cock definitely has girth like Stiles expected, and the first thrust is slow and easy. It hardly hurts, but there is a definite burn, which Stiles loves, and excuse him for sounding dumb, but it feels like Peter's dick was made to be in Stiles' ass. Or Stiles' ass was made for Peter's dick. Whichever, he's having a good time either way.  
  
And hello, prostate, how are you my friend?  
  
"Are you good, baby?" Peter absolutely sounds strained now. He's pressed firmly over Stiles' back and is raining kisses across his shoulders and the back of his neck. His breath blows hotly over Stiles when he takes a deep breath. "Please, please, say I can move."  
  
"Oh, fuck, yes, move move move-"  
  
Peter pulls back in a steady motion and the drag of his cock is  _delicious,_ and the return thrust is even better because he hits Stiles' prostate dead on. A few slow, steady thrusts later, Stiles keens for more.  
  
"Your wish is my command, darling."  
  
He speeds up his thrusts and it's so good. Perfect. Fantastic. The _slap slap slap_ of Peter's hips meeting Stiles' ass is  _obscene._ Stiles buries his head in the pillow to muffle his cries after only a few moments.  
  
"Oh, that just won't do. Let me hear you."  
  
Peter's arms come around Stiles' torso and lifts him so he's practically sitting up on Peter's thick thighs. Like that, Peter feels even deeper. Stiles whines; at this angle, Peter loses out on speed, but gains strength. Stiles' back is glued to his chest, and Peter buries his face into the crook of Stiles' neck with a growl.  
  
"Think you can come just like this, sweetheart?" Peter says lowly against his ear, breath hot on the shell. Stiles can already feel his balls tightening up again; he feels like he's been close to coming for hours.  
  
Peter lays a line of hot, sucking kisses down the side of Stiles' neck and then  _bites_ and it's all over.  
  
The pain of it feels so fucking good and it shoots straight to Stiles' dick. He stutters out a few high syllables of nonsense, whining as his orgasm is practically torn from him. His balls tighten and he comes with the force of a freight train, painting his own stomach with his come, even getting a few drops on his chin.  
  
Peter's not far behind. His grip tightens and his hips move in harsh tandem with Stiles.  
  
"So good, beautiful boy, so fucking good, so tight, smell so right, you feel so good, mine, mine,  _mine!"  
  
_With a snarl Peter presses Stiles back down into the bed and comes harshly, and if Stiles had any higher brain function he might have thought Peter actually howled.  
  
As it is, all he can focus on is the feel of Peter coming; the heat of him burns through the thin layer of the condom and Stiles wishes he could actually feel it directly, feel it dripping out of him after.  
  
Peter gives a few more thrusts, just on the edge of too much for Stiles, before they both still. They fall to the side, Peter the big spoon, and settle in for a much-deserved post-coital nap.  
  
***  
  
When Stiles comes to a bit later, it's to Peter wiping him down with a warm wet cloth, all the care of a long-term lover in gentle motions. It's such an intimate thing and it makes Stiles' heart clench a bit because he's never had that happen.  
  
He realizes that he doesn't know where this is going.  
  
Sure, he'd planned on tonight just being a one-off deal. But that was when he was under the impression that he was meeting a dude named Jeremy at the bar for a blind date; before leaving he'd already made the decision that he just wanted to get laid.  
  
But then Peter happened.  
  
Peter sets aside the washcloth and nuzzles up beside him, kissing the side of his neck and nosing against his ear.  
  
"So..." Normally by this point Stiles is either getting kicked out of bed or he's booking it before he overstays his welcome. He doesn't want either of those things right now.  
  
Peter pauses in his nuzzling. "So..."  
  
Okay, never let it be said that Stiles can't overcome his anxiety with regards to impulse decisions. The potential letdown if Peter turns out to not be as into him as he hopes can't hold a candle to his ability to act without much thought.  
  
"So, I really would like to do this again, preferably soon, and maybe more than that, but definitely involving more orgasms, but if you're not into that, that's cool too, but I think, given the evidence, we could totally- mmph!"  
  
Oh, yep, Peter is kissing him. Which, really, is the politest way anyone has every used to get him to shut up when he's on a good ramble.  
  
Peter pulls away and Stiles is already chasing him for another kiss, which he grants.  
  
A few minutes and some heavenly exchange of soul-searing kisses later, Peter pulls away again.  
  
"Would you like to stay the night?  
  
Stiles is giddy. "Yes, please."  
  
***  
  
Stiles and Peter aren't idle through the night.  
  
Round two is slower than the first time, on their sides with Peter spooned up behind him.  
  
Then, he finally gets to choke himself on Peter's dick. Stiles has him on length, but the man is  _thick_ and Stiles' thoroughly enjoys getting his throat fucked. Peter holds him gently after he comes down his throat and offers him sips from a bottle of water to soothe him.  
  
Later, Stiles also gets to ride him, which he fucking  _loves_ okay? Because while getting dicked from behind is amazing, controlling the pace and being in a position to kiss Peter as much as he wants while also getting dicked is even better.  
  
Finally they trade lazy handjobs in the shower, with slow orgasms and even slower kisses. Stiles also vows to steal all of Peter's bodywash because it's light on smell and heavy on making his skin feel buttery soft; he's pretty sure he couldn't afford a single bottle on his own, because nothing that good could possibly be cheap, but he deserves a  _few_ nice things in his life. Of course, it won't be the same without Peter there to massage it into his skin and rinse it away, but it will still evoke some amazing memories.  
  
They never do get around to Stiles getting to fuck Peter though, because eventually, Stiles is worn the hell out.  
  
But hey, the trade off is getting the most restful night of sleep he's had in probably the last two years, held in the arms of arguably the hottest man he's ever had the opportunity to hook up with, in the most comfortable bed imaginable, after the best impromptu date he's ever been on.  
  
He'll call it a win.


	2. And Thank You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after is a revelation, and Stiles is hooked on those good feels.

Sunlight is streaming into Stiles' eyes, which is weird because he always keeps the blinds closed, except for that one time he was drunk and forgot which way to turn the stick thingy before he stripped down to his skin and accidentally gave the octogenarian in the apartment across the way a strip show. He might have been dancing while he did it.  
  
She sent him cookies the next day.  
  
Heh, good times.  
  
Anyway.  
  
Sunlight. In his eyes. That is a strange thing. Also, his bed is incredibly soft. Stupidly warm, which is a nice change because his apartment is actually kind of cold all the time because of the busted thermostat. And also he can't move.  
  
Oh, and there is an very hot, very heavy, very warm man holding him in a very firm grip.  
  
Peter Fucking Hale. Right. Fucking  _score.  
  
_Stiles is on his back and Peter is octopussed around him, nose tucked into Stiles' neck. That seems par for the course if last night was any indication; the man couldn't seem to keep his eyes, or mouth, or nose away from Stiles' neck for any significant amount of time. And there was the whole smelling thing, but Stiles isn't about to kink shame. Not when  _he_ apparently is going to be forever unable to sleep with anyone that can't growl and manhandle him the way Peter can. Does that count as a kink? He thinks it does. Seriously, he wonders if he'll even be able to go solo after this. He is ruined. Peter has ruined him.  
  
Worth it.  
  
But ugh,  _sunlight._  
  
Sunlight means he has to get up. Sunlight means it's Friday. Sunlight means that he has Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, three more sleeps, until two of his final exams on Monday. Then another sleep before his final project is due on Tuesday for another class. Then one more sleep before his last three exams on Wednesday. Seriously, why the hell did he double major?!  
  
Then after exams, he graduates.  
  
After he graduates, he has to figure out what the hell to do with his degrees. Most likely scenario, he goes and gets a Master's and teaches or something or he gets a teaching certificate and teaches some history or lit classes at a high school. Or writes a book. Or works in a museum. Or something.   
  
He doesn't even want to think about his student loans. He earned a bunch of small scholarships that didn't cover much and his job at the station covered his rent and utilities and food. So loans were a thing he had to do. Thankfully BHU is local so he hadn't had to move (though he did get his own apartment because he wanted to be an adult or something), but the university doesn't have any graduate programs relevant to his degree, so most likely he is going to have to transfer somewhere if he decides to go that route, and he doesn't  want to leave his dad behind or-  
  
"Darling, it is entirely too early for this level of anxiety."  
  
He snaps out of it and realizes Peter is awake and scrutinizing him through half-lidded eyes and an absolute Grumpy-Cat level of expression.  
  
"Your eyes glow."  
  
Which, yeah, they do. He saw it last night, many times, and Peter's eyes are totally doing the glowy thing now. He didn't mean to point it out, though.   
  
Peter doesn't react with surprise or anything that Stiles noticed. In fact, he seems the tiniest bit smug. "I'm sure it's the lighting." Okay, that was a bald-faced lie, and the man knows it and isn't even trying to hide the fact it's a lie.  
  
"Sure it is." Stiles doesn't call him out on it. So this guy has weird, radioactive, glowing eyes. He's also managed to give Stiles all four of his top-four best orgasms of his life. Let the man have his glowy secrets.  
  
"Your heartbeat is going crazy, sweetheart. What's wrong?" Peter has his hand on Stiles' chest, accounting for knowing what his heartbeat feels like.  
  
"I... I need to go back to my apartment and study."  
  
"Oh." Peter doesn't pull away, but he looks disappointed. "Right, you said yesterday you had finals next week."  
  
"Yeah." Stiles groans and flops his head back against the pillow. "I screwed myself with a double major because I'm an idiot."  
  
Peter chuckles, and they bask in a companionable silence for a few moments.  
  
Then, "I have a proposal for you."  
  
Stiles watches Peter sit up, and the blankets fall to the man's waist. He tracks his eyes down that solid chest and doesn't even try to pretend he's not ogling the other man.  
  
"I'm listening." And staring.  
  
Peter laughs. "How would you feel about going to your apartment, getting the things you need for studying, and spending the weekend here. With me."  
  
It takes a moment for Stiles to understand what Peter just said, but when gets it he can feel warmth and excitement racing through him because  _hell yes.  
_  
"I have to warn you; studying is something I take way too seriously. It'll look like a research explosion in your apartment."  
  
He's smiling in response. "You could always use my office.  My desk is large enough to spread your notes out on, I'm sure."  
  
_You can spread me out on it,_ Stiles thinks but manages not to say, having achieved optimal levels of brain function through lack of orgasms in recent hours.  
  
"I also get stupidly focused. You might get bored of me ignoring you." Stiles reaches a hand out to run an appreciative hand over Peter's abs.  
  
"I have work to do as well, so I'm sure I can find something to keep me occupied in the meantime." Peter leans over Stiles then, slowly, still smiling, and in the sunlight he looks like a shining golden god, all warm and strong and just _guh_.  
  
"It might freak you out when I don't move for hours, even to forage for food."  
  
"I'll bring you snacks." Peter inches slowly closer.  
  
"It's not going to be pretty."  
  
"I'm pretty enough for both of us." And Stiles loses it, giggling (and seriously, when has he  _ever_ giggled, what even the hell?!) even as Peter starts to kiss him.  
  
It's a good start to the morning.  
  
***  
  
When they finally get out of bed, it's nearly noon, but that's okay because Peter works from home and Stiles has no classes and doesn't work again till after he graduates; he requested time off to ensure he wouldn't get stressed during his finals. It's not going to be great for his bank account, but he's a frugal dude so he has enough savings to cushion himself.  
  
His first goal is the bathroom; after relieving himself he finally gets a chance to examine Peter's good work, because  _damn_ that man knows how to mark someone up. He's covered in lovebites and hickeys. The most prominent is the bruise on his neck; the skin isn't broken, but there is a neat impression of teeth that will take a while to fade. He's pretty okay with it sticking around for a bit, like a badge of pride.  
  
He finally gets a chance to look at the rest of Peter's apartment and he's surprised at how... spartan it is. It's certainly expensive- he couldn't picture Peter ever settling for anything within the average person's salary, let alone something in Stiles' budget- but it feels very impersonal. There are no photos on the walls, everything is pristine, and it hardly looks lived in. Even the decorating, while it looks like something out of a magazine, seems cold. The bedroom is the only exception; the bed is obscenely large and comfortable, and there are bits of his life scattered around it, a jacket hanging on the edge of the closet door, a book on the nightstand, the rumpled bed linens. The bedroom seems like the only lived-in room in the whole place.  
  
He takes a few minutes to check his phone, too. Scott texted him last night to wish him good luck and to not get killed; he'd also apologized about Jeremy being a jerk and blessed Stiles to have good sex. He smiles, because as much as Scott drives him nuts with his crusade to "Find Stiles' Twoo Wuv", he's also the Bro-est of Bros about Stiles having fun. There's a new text from Scott asking why Jeremy called him from the hospital and why he's blaming Stiles for a broken wrist.  
  
_- **Jeremy got handsy and Peter defended me. It made me swoon. It was definitely a swoon-worthy moment** - _he texts back.   
  
A moment later - _ **Thts not cool. im sry i set u up w him** -  
  
- **Don't sweat it, Scotty. Met Peter, and he was definitely an improvement!-**  
  
\- **:)** -_  
  
That Scott leaves it at that is no surprise. He's a simple dude, Scott, and he usually takes Stiles' judgement at face-value. Stiles is also not surprised his bro didn't comment on Peter Hale's name; the guy probably doesn't even remember the Hale family or the near-tragedy of the fire. You'd think he'd remember the grisly murders after, or Stiles' obsession with the police investigation, but Scott is a very in-the-moment kind of guy, prone to moving on quickly if things don't affect him directly.  
  
Still, Stiles loves the guy like a brother, and he wouldn't trade him for the world.  
  
Stiles also realizes that he has no clothes besides his waistcoat and his underwear. Which, yeah, having his clothes destroyed because  _incoming hot sex_ was pretty fucking amazing at the time, but now he's reaping the consequences of no clothes the next day.  
  
A bundle of cloth smacks him in the face as he's contemplating the remnants of his jeans and he yelps and flails and nearly brains himself by tripping over nothing.  
  
"What the sh- oh." He's now holding a pair of sweats and a soft t-shirt. He looks over at Peter, who had thrown the clothes at him.  
  
"Get dressed darling, unless you want to do the walk of shame in just your waistcoat?" The hot asshole is smirking and that should  _not_ be so hot.  
  
"No such thing as a walk of shame for me. It's the 'Got Laid Parade,'" he snarks back even as he's tugging on the t-shirt which is stupidly soft with a vee-neck. It fits him in the shoulders but is pretty loose around his waist. The sweats are cozy and he has to pull the drawstring as tight as possible to keep them on his skinny hips.  
  
"You look good in my clothes," Peter rumbles out, wrapping his arms around Stiles from behind and rubbing against his back like an affectionate cat.   
  
He's like that in the kitchen, too, while he cooks breakfast; constantly touching Stiles, brushing against him, kissing his neck, running his hands over him as though he can't help it. And that is just so fucking nice. Stiles is internally preening at the idea of a man like Peter being unable to keep his hands off him, like touching him is just an unconscious need. It's just... ugh, it's just  _nice,_ okay? He doesn't have any other word for it right now.  
  
Stiles is all about the touchy-feely though. Always has been. When he was a kid, there wasn't a day that went by without him cuddling his mom or hugging his dad. He and Scott didn't really have any boundaries either; there had been many times they fell into a cuddle puddle after a binge-night of video games and junk food.  
  
Lately though he's been feeling a bit touch-starved. He and Scott are both slammed with classes and responsibilities so they don't see each other as often, his dad and Scott's mom have been spending an awful lot of their free-time together (which, _fucking finally_ -he and Scott are eagerly awaiting their chance to officially call each other "brother") so his dad-time has been relegated to occasional lunches and seeing each other at the station.  
  
So by the time he and Peter are done eating breakfast (homemade waffles, what up), Stiles is feeling  _floaty_ from so much good touch. Good touch is amazing.  
  
He wants more of it, universe, please and thank you.  
  
***  
  
The trip to his apartment is hurried. He lets Peter wait in the car (though he offers to come up and help him with any heavy lifting, Stiles has been a bit lax on housekeeping lately and he's not embarrassed, buuuuuut he wants to make a _good_ impression the first time he drags Peter up) and rushes up to get what he needs. He grabs clothes and his toothbrush and his meds and tosses them in a backpack, but doesn't change out of Peter's clothes because, well, he  _likes_ being surrounded by his smell. His laptop, his binders of notecards and research, and his books all get carefully packed into a duffel. He has been spending a lot of time at the campus library so his research hasn't been near as spread-out as it usually is; he's kept it fairly neat specifically for easy carrying, so it only takes a few minutes to gather what he needs. He thinks he's ready.  
  
At the last second he makes a detour to his dresser, specifically his underwear drawer. He grabs what he needs and he's out the door.  
  
Somewhere on the way down the stares (the elevator hasn't worked in the entire two years he's lived there) Stiles wonders if this isn't crazy.  
  
He's just met Peter Hale, knows him only by his reputation (which is mysterious and dangerous), and he's about to spend the weekend with him after a single night of the hottest sex he's ever had in his life. He used to have a crush (obsession) on the guy when he was a kid, so maybe those feelings are fucking with his perception of the situation. Peter casually  _broke a guy's wrist the day before._

He pauses on the landing before the last set of stairs.   
  
"This is crazy," he says out loud. "This is fucking crazy."  
  
But... it's not exactly an alarming revelation to him. It's like he commented on the weather. Oh, it's sunny outside, it's a sunny day. Stiles is doing something crazy, that's normal.  
  
He shrugs to himself and starts back down the stairs. No point in stopping now; he's already packed.  
  
***  
  
The thing is, Stiles half-expects Peter to try seducing him out of study-mode every chance he gets.  
  
But...  _he doesn't._  
  
He just... doesn't.  
  
_He actually let's Stiles study?  
  
_AND HE BRINGS HIM SNACKS LIKE HE SAID HE WOULD?  
  
Which, fucking awesome, but still, unexpected.  
  
Peter sets him up in his office, which he hadn't seen before, and Stiles revises his opinion of the lived-in nature of Peter's apartment, because  _clearly_ this is Peter's favorite room.  
  
For one, there are books fucking  _everywhere._  
  
Built-in shelves cover every wall, and each one is completely filled. And they're not just best-sellers (though he eyes that gorgeous limited-edition leather-bound set of the Harry Potter books, _I see you, Peter Hale, you fucking nerd_ ); there are so many old tomes (and they are definitely tomes, because "book" is not an accurate word for any of them) packing the shelves and he has to take a few minutes to study the spines. He makes mental notes to ask if some of them are just really authentic copies, or if they're the real deal, because a few of these books on magic don't look like they were plucked from the bargain-bin rack at Target. Also, why does Peter Hale, a business man, need books about magic?  
  
There's also the desk, which is huge, and it has a few notes scattered around it. Peter straightens them and puts them away, picks up his MacBook and presents the now-empty surface with a flourish.  
  
"It's all yours, sweetheart."  
  
Warmth spreads through him, and he smiles. "Thanks."  
  
Peter takes his Macbook into the living room, sets himself up on the couch, and proceeds to work.  
  
Stiles sets up his own laptop, spreads out his notes and books, and... studies.  
  
Like he warned Peter, he gets very engrossed. He pours through notes for the first of his Monday finals, which he's not really worried about, it's an easy enough class. His final project for his Tuesday class- a detailed analysis of the influence of creation myths on historical events in different cultures- is his biggest concern. It's mostly done and really just requires some polishing, which of course means he spends three hours on it without moving. He almost feels like he could probably submit it online by Monday morning, and he's just about to start reworking an entire section when he feels a nudge at his shoulder.  
  
"Hwah?"  
  
"A snack, darling."  
  
Oh. Food. Peter and food.  
  
Peter just smiles down at him and sets a plate on the desk- thoughtfully far away from any of his research notes- and runs a hand across the back of Stiles' neck. "Take a bit, stretch, eat, and then you can get back to it."  
  
That's... yeah, that's nice.  
  
The snack is just a half-sandwich and some vegetables and a glass of orange juice, but god it's delicious. He inhales it quickly, then takes time to go to the bathroom and walk around a bit, not realizing how stiff he'd been getting despite Peter's office chair being ergonomic and super-comfortable.  
  
On his way back to the office, he leans over the back of the couch and presses a quick kiss to Peter's cheek. "Thanks."  
  
"Of course, sweetheart," he purrs out.  
  
It continues like that for the rest of the day, and not once does Stiles feel annoyed by Peter's gentle reminders to be human and do human things. He kind of relishes it, actually. It's been a while since anyone cared to, well, take care of him.  
  
He's still surprised by the lack of seduction, but he likes that Peter took him seriously when he said he had to study. He's had long-term partners that had gotten frustrated with him when he put things off in the name of his education, but he'd warned them and they hadn't believed him when he said school took priority, especially around finals time. His study-habits were probably in the top-three reasons why former partners had dumped him. Oh, they tried to be understanding at first, but eventually they would get tired of trying to bully him into taking his nose out of his notes for long enough to even notice they're in the same room.  
  
Peter though... he could definitely get used to this. Peter just quietly moves into the room, gently praises him, leaves him snacks, makes a point of gently touching him in some way, and then leaves. And Stiles feels the need to follow after him to prolong the connection for a bit before he goes back into study-mode.  At some point he also brings him supper; what it was, he hasn't a clue, he just ate what was put next to him at Peter's gentle insistence. It's all so very domestic, but that doesn't particularly bother Stiles. It just makes him feel warm and cared for.  
  
And it actually makes studying and finishing his project much smoother. Peter's presence isn't a hindrance, is really rather soothing, and by late evening, when  Stiles emerges from the haze of working, he feels like maybe he can submit his project right then. His anxiety levels are nowhere near what they've been before when he's struggled through finals, which is a nice surprise. So without giving himself a chance to second-guess how good his project is, he submits his analysis to the online classroom and breathes a sigh of relief; submitting it early means he doesn't have to actually  _attend_ the final exam on Tuesday, so it's like a bonus day off, and an extra full day of studying for the three exams he has to go to on Wednesday. Usually by this point he's nowhere  _near_ quitting, has chewed up half his pens, has scattered his notes at least a dozen times, has forgotten to take his meds, or a any number of other things; he's not usually easing out of a study-coma with such a calm sense of assurance that he's done well.  
  
So he's feeling very good about himself and the prospect of an extra day off when he floats into the living room, where Peter is nestled on the couch, MacBook in his lap. He glances up as Stiles approaches and offers a smile. "Done for the day?"  
  
"Mmmm yup." It probably shouldn't be so easy for him to crawl onto the couch with a man he barely knows, shouldn't be so easy for him to burrow into his lap- once he sets his computer aside on the coffee table- and let himself be guided into a warm, comforting hug. "Got my analysis paper turned in so I don't have to go to the final on Tuesday."  
  
"Good boy." He grins at the praise, closes his eyes like a contented cat when a warm hand settles on the back of his neck and gives an affectionate squeeze. He takes in a deep breath, takes in the scent of cozy, warm man and burrows a bit deeper into Peter's embrace. He wonders, idly, if Peter's scent-kink is rubbing off on him, because he doesn't think he's ever paid much attention to how a person smells beyond if it was "good" or "bad."  
  
"I think it's time for bed," Peter says lowly. When Stiles opens his eyes, the older man has a faint smirk on his lips and his eyes are doing the glowy-thing. Seriously, he wants to find out what that means. Because that's not something normal men do. Not that Stiles particularly cares if Peter is "normal" or not. He likes Peter being not-normal if that's his normal state.  
  
"Mmmkay," he murmurs back, but it takes a moment before he can rustle up the urge to actually move. Even then, it's only because Peter nudges him up off the couch; he then guides him through the apartment with a hand cupped gently around the back of his neck.   
  
He feels so damn good, he doesn't remember much of getting ready for bed; all he can think of is the warmth of Peter, Peter's hands, being close to Peter, Peter,  _Peter, Peterpeterpeter...  
  
_***  
  
When he wakes up this time, there's no sunlight glaring in his eyes, but he feels just as warm and content. He's awoken a bit earlier than planned; the sun isn't even really up yet though it's dim in the room, hinting at the coming sunrise.  
  
Peter is wrapped around him again, and he's... is he  _purring?_  
  
He's pretty sure Peter is purring.  
  
It's definitely not a snore; the man's nose is pressed into Stiles' neck and while he can feel his breath, it's not labored or annoying. Instead, where Peter is pressed against his body, he feels a gentle rumble. It reminds him of Mrs. Richardson's old tomcat that used to prowl around the neighborhood and slut himself out to anyone for pets; once you sank your fingers into his fur, he'd flop over and start kneading air-biscuits and his purr sounded like the beastly roar of an old motorcycle. This feels like that, but all over Stiles' back, and it sinks into him like a soothing wave.  
  
There's something else though.  
  
Peter's arms hold him firmly, and the one wrapped over him his holding Stiles' own against his chest. And the hand holding Stiles' has... claws.  
  
Huh.  
  
Well that's certainly something.  
  
The thing with Stiles is that he's observant and perhaps a little too clever for his own good. It's been a source of frustration for his father- and his teachers- over the years, because he doesn't ever give up on a puzzle even if everyone around him has. He questions things, gathers evidence, and draws conclusions, and he's not usually quiet about it. He gets way too excited about mysteries to keep things to himself.  
  
Unless it's important.  
  
Then he keeps his cards close to his chest. He waits to show his hand.  
  
So, his evidence is as follows.  
  
One, Peter's eyes glow. He doesn't try to hide the fact, seemed amused when Stiles pointed them out.  
  
Two, Peter is obsessed with smelling Stiles. He has his nose pressed against Stiles' neck any chance he gets.  
  
Three, the guy growls, which,  _hot.  
  
_Four, he likes to bite,  _a lot._ Not that Stiles minds.  
  
Five, the man apparently purrs while sleeping.  
  
Six, Peter  _has claws.  
  
Seven, Peter has a mysteriously violent past involving a maniac trying to murder his family for no apparent reason.  
  
_He feels like  _maybe_ he should be panicking about it all, but really Stiles is just intrigued.   
  
Because honestly, he wants to see where this is going. He  _needs_ to know.  
  
And he doesn't feel like Peter is going to hurt him.  
  
Something inside him positively rebels at the idea that Peter would harm him.  
  
Just... no.  
  
He's aware that sounds crazy, even to himself. He might be too close to the situation to see any red flags. But he knows, deep in his bones, that he's right.  
  
He also knows that Peter is not human.  
  
What he is, exactly, he can't be sure. But he is definitely going to find out.  
  
But first...  
  
Slowly, steadily, he turns over in Peter's arms. Peter let's out a snuffle- fucking,  _adorable,_ he swears- and his purring halts momentarily. He shifts onto his back at Stiles' gentle nudge, only grumbling a bit.  
  
Stiles is very much awake now, the new puzzle serving to get his mental gears turning. There's no  _way_ he can get back to sleep now.  
  
Not without a little help anyway. And an orgasm is always a good way to help. He straddles his lover's thighs and starts making plans. For a moment he wonders if it would be okay to wake the man up with a blowjob, but they never talked about anything like that and he doesn't want to push any boundaries.  
  
He takes a few moments to simply observe Peter, because,  _guh_ , the man is fucking beautiful, even sleep-mussed with pillow creases on his face. Stiles decides he can't start anything without kissing that face, because he's also a damned sap and he wants kisses.  
  
He leans over and presses his lips in gentle brushes against Peter's. It takes a bit, but eventually Peter starts kissing him back. Warm hands- now blessedly claw-free- land on his hips and pull him closer.  
  
When they part, Stiles is breathless, and Peter is smiling sleepily up at him, eyes all aglow in the dim light.  
  
"Mmmm, it's so early, sweetheart," he murmurs, but he's running his hands up Stiles' sides and around to his back. Stiles shivers under the touch and grins.  
  
"Too early for orgasms?" Peter's eyes flash at the mention of orgasms, just a brief, brighter glow that makes Stiles' breath hitch.  
  
"Never too early for that," he growls out, tugging Stiles back down into a kiss.  
  
Please and thank you!  
  
***  
  
The weekend is over way too quickly for Stiles.  
  
Saturday is much like Friday. Stiles spends the day studying, with regular snack breaks courtesy of Peter. But, without the pressure of the analysis on his shoulders, he calls it quits much earlier. He knows, deep down, that he is absolutely prepared for all of his finals. But he's always been this way, worried the one time he doesn't obsessively study is the one time he's going to do poorly. His teachers in high school had always said that he knew the subject matter; he just focused too much on other things. Besides, two of the classes are kind of stupidly easy- gen eds. he put off till the last minute, and two of them are allowing notecards of terminology. The last final on Wednesday is perhaps the hardest; it's a critical study seminar with a three-hour exam time. He's as prepared for it as he can be.  
  
He and Peter go out and eat dinner-this time Italian at this nice little mom-and-pop place that's been around for decades- and talk and joke and have fun. He figures out that Peter has a shameless sweet tooth; he eats two pieces of cheesecake and tries to steal half of Stiles' mini cannoli.  Stiles is definitely counting is as their second date.  
  
When they get back to Peter's, Stiles shows off what he detoured to his underwear drawer for before leaving his own apartment.  
  
His best pair of red lace panties.  
  
Peter is very appreciative of them.  
  
Stiles finds out what it's like to be picked up and fucked against a wall for his efforts.  
  
The panties get shredded and Peter promises to buy him a rainbow of lace panties.  
  
Stiles promises to wear all of them if he does.  
  
Sunday is even easier than Saturday. Stiles goes over some notes, peers through a few of his books, but he's feeling good about his chances during finals, so after only a few hours, he considers himself done.  
  
He takes some time to go over Peter's books, paying particular attention to the ones that seem odd. There are probably half a dozen on magic, and a few on fairy-tales which really catch his eye; none of them feel like they're going to answer any of his questions about Peter, but he does make a mental note to ask if he can read them later. After all, his Mythology major has a secondary focus on fairy-tales.  
  
Unsatisfied, he gives up and decides to spend the day with Peter, who is definitely amenable. Peter cooks lunch for them, and they spend most of the rest of the day in bed.  
  
Stiles _finally_  gets to fuck Peter.  
  
Working him open is his favorite part, because Peter turns into a needy, writhing creature. Stiles also decides to try rimming for the first time; Peter did it to him and he loved it, how can he  _not_ reciprocate? It would be absolutely _rude_ to expect it without be willing to give it in return.  
  
Besides, Stiles feels like he should really explore all avenues of his blatant oral fixation and put them all to good use.  
  
When Peter demands Stiles finally fuck him, he's growling and his eyes flash back at Stiles over his shoulder, and Stiles  _swears_ he sees fangs for just a moment, but he files that little fact away, too focused on slipping on a condom, lubing up, and sliding home.  
  
He's not quite got enough stamina to make sure Peter comes before him, though he gives it his best shot, trying to nail Peter's prostate as often as possible.  
  
But Peter is also growling out commands and dirty talk and, yeah, there's no way he can last long.  
  
"Come on, sweetheart, that's it, fuck me until you come."  
  
"Give it to me, darling, want you to come in my ass."  
  
"Wish you didn't have to wear the condom, want to feel it, want to feel you dripping out of me."  
  
That last one is the last straw, and Stiles is helpless against coming.  
  
Peter doesn't seem to mind. He is grinning over his shoulder. "Good boy."  
  
Stiles doesn't let him be smug for long. He gets Peter on his back and swallows down his cock, once again putting his oral fixation to good use.  
  
Take that, you smug, beautiful asshole.  
  
***  
  
It's late on Sunday, almost nine, and he and Peter are dozing in the afterglow.  
  
"What time is your first final tomorrow?"  
  
It takes Stiles a moment to understand. And reality comes crashing down. It's Sunday and tomorrow is Monday. Tomorrow is the first day of exams.  
  
"Ten a.m. on the dot," he mumbles, burrowing his face against Peter's shoulder.  
  
"Stay the night?" Peter runs his hand along the back of Stiles' neck, a familiar gesture now, and it soothes him. "I can take you to your apartment in the morning to drop off your things and then take you to class if you want?"  
  
He grins and snuggles closer.  
  
"I think I'm in danger of getting used to this," he mumbles.  
  
"You could, if you wanted... get used to this, I mean."  
  
Once again, Stiles is witness to something he wouldn't have ever imagined coming from Peter Hale: vulnerability.  
  
He looks up and Peter has his trademarked "You Only Wish You Were As Confident As Me" face on.   
  
But beyond that, he looks hopeful and unsure. Like he wants to ask something, but is afraid of rejection.  
  
Stiles is intimately familiar with that feeling and he recognizes it when he sees it.  
  
"Are you asking to see me again?"  
  
"I'm asking to see you again. And more, if we decide that's what we want."  
  
He grins and scrambles up to kiss Peter.  
  
It's not graceful and he knees Peter in the gut, and one of his arms flails the wrong way and nearly takes out one of his cool glowing eyes, but Peter just laughs and wraps his arms around his enthusiastic lover to hold him still and minimize damage.  
  
"Please and thank you," Stiles murmurs through a kiss.  
  
"So polite," Peter says back, laughing as he pins Stiles to the bed.  
  
They celebrate in the best way, with more kisses and orgasms and snuggling.  
  
When Stiles falls asleep that night, he's glad he's given to impulse decisions.  
  
He feels like nothing could possibly ruin this.  
  
***  
  
_Fuck._


	3. Well, Fuck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles really didn't see this coming.

The next few days craaaaaaawl by, and Stiles is not okay with that.  
  
After Peter delivers him to campus for his first final on Monday, Stiles feels a bit... unmoored. After only a weekend of constant contact with Peter, he is unashamed to admit he had grown a bit dependent on that good feeling.  
  
He wonders if that's normal, to be so enamored so quickly.  
  
He also wonders if it has any connection to the puzzle of what, exactly, Peter Hale is.  
  
And he also wonders why the idea of Peter not being human doesn't exactly bother him like it probably should.  
  
His first final goes by easily enough, and he has a few hours before the next, so after acquiring an iced coffee from the union, he finds an empty picnic table on the quad and calls Scott. If anyone would understand falling too quickly, it would be Scott. Their junior year of high school, he'd been absolutely gone on a girl named Kira. When she'd moved away, he'd been devastated because she was his first girlfriend. But after their breakup, suddenly most of the girls in Beacon Hills were crushing on sweet, heartbroken Scott McCall. After that, he went through a string of girlfriends, falling hard and fast for each one, but still not the way he had with Kira. He's actually currently single, but he's on a constant quest for True Love. Finding Stiles his own True Love is just the sidequest he's been distracted by for a bit.  
  
Scott picks up after the second ring. "Hey Stiles. Glad to know you didn't get murdered!"  
  
Stiles snorts out a laugh. "I am blessedly murder-free. Unless you count _la petite mort."  
  
_"What?"  
  
"Nevermind, Scotty. I forgot you failed French."  
  
"So did you!"  
  
"I didn't fail! I successfully refused to pass!"  
  
"Dude, that's the same as failing."  
  
"It's only a failure if I didn't learn anything."  
  
"Or if you received a big fat 'F' and a letter from the teacher to never let you near his class again."  
  
"Which I count as a success, because that guy was  _awful_ and should not have been allowed around impressionable young children."  
  
Scott just laughs. "Well, you're not wrong there. So how was your murder-free weekend?"  
  
Stiles sighs blissfully and pillows his head on his backpack, tucking his phone against his ear. "Oh my god, so good, Scott, you have  _no idea."_  
  
"Good sex?"  
  
"The best."  
  
"You gonna see him again? This Peter guy?"  
  
Stiles can't help the dopey smile that spreads across his face, and is glad Scott isn't there to see, because normally Stiles is the one making fun of Scott for how easily he falls ass-over-teakettle and how dumb he looks doing it; given even half the chance, Scott would have his revenge. "Yeah. We're going out again on Wednesday after my last final to celebrate."  
  
And Scott, bright, happy Scott, gushes over the news with the kind of enthusiasm only he can come up with.  
  
"That's awesome!" he cheers. "You think it's gonna be serious?"  
  
And that, Stiles does not know. But he... he hopes. It's kind of surprising to him.  
  
"I hope so."  
  
"Dude, I'm happy for you!"   
  
"So, you don't think it's crazy that I like him so much already?"  
  
Scott just laughs. "Nah. I mean, it's not like I have any room to judge."  
  
That... actually makes him feel a bit better. "Thanks, Scotty."  
  
After talking to Scott, he snaps a selfie of his head on the table, staring at his empty coffee cup with a pout and the caption, "Why is the coffee gone?" and sends it to Peter.  
  
The reply is almost instant, a gif of a pathetic looking cat with frazzled hair and flashing text that says "Where's my coffee?" Stiles snorts and warmth flows through him at Peter's quick response.  
  
So it goes until his next final. He sends Peter increasingly goofy selfies, and gets funny and flirty messages back. Peter also sends back a few of his own selfies; most of them are him just smiling at the camera, but one is apparently after he ran his hands through his hair because the brown strands are sticking straight up and look like a serious case of bedhead.   
  
- _ **You look like an adorable pineapple!-  
  
**_It's a few minutes before he gets a text back.  
  
- _ **Rude boy.-**_ It's followed up buy a selfie of peter with a truly unimpressed look on his face. **- _I look exquisite in this lighting and all I get is abuse.-  
  
_**Stiles just cackles, because, yeah, he looks hotter than hell, but  _that hair!_ He continues to rib him for the next while.  
  
Then a few minutes before he has to get to class, a photo comes through, but he doesn't have time to look at it. He's too busy running across the quad to the West Building. He'd lost track of time flirting with Peter.  
  
He's just sat down when he looks at his phone and he swallows down a startled squeak.  
  
Because that is  _definitely_ not Peter's face on the screen.  
  
- ** _Dude, if i fail this final and don't graduate, it's your fault for distracting me.-  
  
-I'll be sure to make it up to you, darling. And don't call me 'dude'.-  
  
-Dude, your hair defies the laws of physics, and your abs defy the laws of decency.-  
  
-Brat.- _**A pause. _- **And also true.** -  
  
**-So modest. Gotta go. Gotta ace this final.-**  
  
**-Kick ass on your exam, darling.-**  
  
_He does.  
  
***  
  
So it goes for the next few days. He and Peter text between his exams, call each other in the evening-and Stiles can now check phone sex off his list of things he never thought he'd actually like-, and make plans for their date on Wednesday. Peter says he has a surprise for him, and Stiles can't wait.  
  
Wednesday's finals are the worst, especially the last one. Peter is going to pick him up at his apartment later at take him out for his surprise date, and Stiles can't wait to get home. He hurries to the parking lot and makes a beeline for Roscoe.  
  
He draws up short, however, because there is someone leaning against his Jeep.  
  
A tall brunette woman with a regal bearing, who straightens when she spots him. She looks vaguely familiar, but he can't place who she is.  
  
"You must be Stiles." Her voice is pleasant enough, and she's smiling a bland, politician's smile, but something in her voice just feels... off. She feels like a predator. He feels like a small furry forest-creature who has just spotted a wolf.  
  
"Who wants to know?" he tries to keep his voice steady, but he doesn't think he succeeds, because her smile sharpens.  
  
"I'm Talia Hale. You seem to have become... acquainted with my brother, Peter."  
  
"That's one way of putting it," he hedges. He knows very little about Talia Hale; unlike Peter, she had kept herself and her children out of the spotlight when the fire and resulting investigation occurred. And as much as he and Peter have gotten to know each other, he has said very little about his family. He was under the impression that they weren't close.  
  
She's still between him and his Jeep, and he suddenly has the urge to escape.   
  
"Stay away from him."  
  
Her voice is commanding in an entirely unnatural way. She's not loud, per se, but there is an undercurrent of power that flows through him and makes some panicked part of his hindbrain wants him to roll over and expose his belly.  
  
"What?"  
  
She is suddenly right in front of him, glaring directly into his eye. "Stay away from Peter." Again, the command in her voice flows through him, and for a moment he  _swears_ her eyes glow red.  
  
A bothersome tickle starts on the back of his neck, flowing down his spine and through his limbs; it goes from light to heavy, weighted down, and he wants to crumble under the command in her voice. Something in him is telling him to submit, to obey. Obey, obey, obeyobeyobeyobey-  
  
He shakes it off after a few seconds.  
  
"How 'bout no."  
  
The look on her face is momentarily satisfying, and he wishes he had his phone out to snap a picture and send it to Peter; he has a feeling very few people ever tell Talia Hale "no".  
  
"Let's be reasonable, Stiles." She smiles that politician's smile again. "I'm sure there's some way to convince you to stay away. A new car, perhaps? Pay off your student loans?"  
  
"Wow, way to sound like a badly-written villain. 'Surely we can come to an agreement-'" he starts to snark out, because he doesn't know how to keep his mouth shut.  
  
Before he knows it, she is right in his face, and he jumps back, but she snaps her hand out and grasps him firmly on the shoulder, keeping him in place.  
  
"Peter is dangerous, Stiles. I'm telling you this for your own good." Her fingers dig into his shoulder and,  _shit,_ he can feel claws digging in.  
  
"And yet, he's never scared or borderline threatened me like  _you are,"_ he snaps back. And he  _is_ scared of her. He feels like he would be stupid not to be scared.  
  
She lets go of him, looking simultaneously startled and pissed.  
  
"I suggest that  _you_ stay away from  _me,_ " he continues. "Wouldn't want it to get back to the Sheriff that his  _son_ is being harassed, now would we?"  
  
It's a bit close to being a "wait till my father hears about this" Malfoy-moment, but the way her face looks like she smelled curdled milk is worth it. He edges around her, not willing to turn his back to a predator, and gets into his Jeep as quickly as possible. She doesn't take her eyes off him even as starts the engine, but doesn't move to stop him.  
  
He guns it out of the parking lot, wanting to put as much space between them as possible.  
  
A block away from the parking lot, he dials Peter and puts him on speaker phone.  
  
"Hello, darling." Peter sounds like his normal smug self.  
  
"Heeeeeyyyy, so um... I kind of met your sister and she kind of scared the shit out of me, and I'm kind of freaked the fuck out right now? Because holy shit, I had an idea that you weren't human, but it was kind of like an abstract idea at this point, and I was gathering evidence to back it up because your eyes glow and I noticed you had claws and shit, but hers were red and she had this weird voice and she tried to like  _command_ me to stay away from you? And I-"  
  
"STILES. Baby, I need you to listen to me." Stiles snaps his mouth shut. "Good, sweetheart, good. I need you to turn around and come to my place."   
  
Stiles takes a deep breath, takes stock of where he is, and then make a few turns to head in the direction of Peter's place.  
  
"Are you heading my way now?"  
  
"Yes," he manages to get out, his voice sounding smaller than he intended. God, he just wants Peter, he hadn't realized just  _how fucking terrified he was until this moment._  
  
"Good boy. I'm staying on the phone with you, just keep driving. I'll be waiting outside the building for you, darling."  
  
It takes him a bit to respond, because he really doesn't know what to say at this point, but eventually his mouth just takes over. "What the fuck, Peter?! Why the fuck was she waiting for me in the parking lot like some shitty high school jock ready to kick my ass after class?!"  
  
"Baby, baby listen to me, listen to my voice. You're going to be okay. Just get here, focus on driving, and listen to my voice. I'm going to keep you safe when you get here. Can you tell me where you are?"  
  
"Um, I just passed that shitty 711 with the forever broken Slurpee machine, across the street from the Safeway?"  
  
"You're only ten blocks away from me, baby. You'll be here before you know it. You'll be safe here, and we'll talk, okay, sweetheart?"  
  
He takes a deep breath. "Yeah, okay, okayokay. Get there, get safe, that's all I gotta do, okay."  
  
Peter stays on the phone with him, and true to his word, he's waiting in front of the building for Stiles when he pulls up. As soon as Stiles puts the Jeep in park, he's at the door, jerking it open and pulling Stiles into his arms.  
  
"Shit, baby, I'm so sorry."  
  
Stiles all but melts into his arms, tucking himself under the older man's chin and taking a deep breath, glutting himself on the safe feeling that invades him.   
  
"Let's get you upstairs."  
  
"My Jeep..."  
  
"I'll have the doorman park it for you, don't worry."  
  
In short order, Peter has gotten him into the building- handing his keys off to the doorman-, into the elevator, and then into his apartment.  
  
Then Stiles finds himself tucked into the couch while Peter perches himself on the coffee table in front of him.  
  
"We need to talk, Stiles."  
  
***  
  
Stiles wants to say that he was prepared for Peter to tell him he was a werewolf. And he sort of was; he'd seen the clues, but he'd just been trying to figure out what the clues were telling him.  
  
But he was  _not_ prepared. Not even a bit.  
  
"A werewolf."  
  
"Yes, sweetheart. A werewolf." And Peter is also wearing his werewolf face- his Beta shift, he called it- and his words are slightly slurred through his fangs. He'd asked Stiles not to freak out when he shifted, and Stiles  _hadn't_ freaked out on the outside.  
  
But on the inside... hoo boy, on this inside he was freaking  _right the fuck out.  
  
_He'd told Peter what happened at the campus parking lot, how Talia had told him to stay away from Peter, and then Peter had dropped a fur-and-fangs-and-horror-movie-monster-shaped bomb on him.  
  
Peter's Beta shift is... well, it's pretty ugly. His brow is a heavy ridge now, and the lack of eyebrows is frankly ridiculous, and the deep blue of his eyes is glowing bright. And the hair that has sprouted...   
  
"You look like a Klingon," Stiles says without meaning to.  
  
Peter just puts his head in his hands. "I reveal I'm a werewolf and you call me a Klingon?" He laughs a bit helplessly.  
  
"Well, I mean, the forehead ridges aren't helping dissuade me." He can't help it when he reaches forward and runs his fingers over Peter's forehead. Peter lifts his head from his hands, and nuzzles against Stiles' fingers.  
  
The scars are still present, but they actually don't seem as extensive in this form.  
  
"So, werewolf," he mumbles, pulling his hands back and carding nervous fingers through his hair. "That's a thing that is real, then."  
  
Peter nods his head.  
  
"Okay, so... okay. That means your sister is a werewolf then. Which means your family is made of werewolves." Which means... shit, was the Hale family nearly murdered because they were werewolves? "Okay, I'll have more prying, invasive questions about all that later, but right now I mostly just want to know  _why the hell your werewolf sister was trying to threaten me?"_ His voice escalates in pitch and ends on a choked squeak because how the hell is that a sentence he had to put together?  
  
For a moment, Peter is quiet, as though he's gathering his thoughts. Then he stands from his seat on the coffee table.  
  
"Conversations like this call for a drink," he mutters, heading for the kitchen. Stiles stands up and follows him, then perches himself at the breakfast bar as Peter pulls out two glasses and a bottle of what is undoubtedly some pretentiously expensive and well-aged whiskey. Peter pours himself a glass and knocks it back before pouring another and also one for Stiles. He sits on the other side of the breakfast bar.  
  
Stiles has never been a fan of whiskey, but he takes a fortifying sip. It burns its way down, but it's warm and he can see why Peter would like it.  
  
Peter stares down into his own glass for a few moments before speaking. He doesn't look at Stiles.  
  
"Our family is our pack, and every pack has its Alpha, the leader whose word is law, who works to protect and guide the pack." He takes a sip. "Talia is the Alpha of the Hale pack. The rest of us- siblings, children, cousins- we are her Betas."  
  
He sounds like he's reciting something that has been told to him a hundred times.  
  
"Of the Betas, there are two who act as the Right and Left Hand. The Right Hand acts as a confidant; emotional support for the Alpha, someone who backs them up and pats them on the head when they need it.  
  
"Then there's the Left Hand. The wolf responsible for acting at the will of the Alpha, but also for the protection of the pack. The Left Hand does what the Right Hand would never consider doing, but the Alpha controls them all the same. But the Left Hand works in the shadows, does what they can to eliminate threats before they get close to the pack. Usually the Alpha turns a bit of a blind eye to the Left Hand; after all, what they don't know, doesn't hurt them.  
  
"Before Talia, our father was the Alpha. He passed the mantle to her when he felt it was time, but he had been training her as the Alpha-Heir since she was a child, since before I was even born. He always said it was because she had 'the Alpha bearing' but I think it was just because she was the oldest, same as he was, same as our grandmother, same as her father. The Hales have always passed the Alpha spark to the oldest child with little consideration."  
  
That doesn't sound bitter  _at all.  
  
_Stiles takes another sip.   
  
"Talia was always a bit of a bully growing up, but she hid it well under the guise of 'doing what's best for the pack' and a smile. Michael, Talia's husband, was her Right Hand; it's not uncommon for the Alpha's Right Hand to also be their mate, their spouse. The Alpha always picks the Right Hand, but the Left.. The Left Hand is chosen for the Alpha."  
  
Peter knocks back his whiskey and grabs the bottle, but doesn't pour another glass yet.   
  
"I was a bit of a surprise to my parents. There's a twelve-year gap between Talia and myself, and she was already slated as the Alpha. She took that seriously and bossed my sisters around accordingly. But she could never quite get me to heel, even as a child, and that didn't sit well with her. Especially when our parents started training me to be the Left Hand." Here, his lips quirk up into a smug half-grin. "The Left Hand can also tell the Alpha 'no.' If it's in the best interest of the Pack, of course."  
  
"This is all fascinating, and I mean that with very low levels of sarcasm because I actually do want to know all this, but what does this have to do with me?" Stiles prods.  
  
"I'm getting there, darling. Build-up is important to a good story."  
  
"You just like the drama.""  
  
"Also true."  
  
Stiles snorts and waves his hand for Peter to continue.  
  
"Talia has never... approved... of the idea of a Left Hand. She has this idea that she can use diplomacy to get what she wants and to keep the peace. 'We're predators, but we don't have to be killers,' is what she always says. Which would be great if there weren't people, humans and other weres, who would kill us in an instant given half a chance." He contemplates the bottle of whiskey. "She also doesn't condone revenge."  
  
Oh.  
  
_Oh.  
  
_"So, hypothetically speaking, if you were to go on a little bit of a revenge spree after a certain devastating event, she would probably be pretty pissed at you."  
  
"Clever boy. Yes, she would be  _very_ pissed. Is still incredibly pissed. So pissed that if my mother weren't still alive and would be disappointed in her, she would cast me out as an Omega and let me rot. As it is, she keeps me on a short leash, at the edge of the pack, and as further punishment, she thinks she can also control every aspect of my life. Including my sex-life."  
  
"She's grounding you like she caught a kid making out with their boyfriend in their bedroom on a school night."  
  
"Pretty much. There's a bit more to it than that, of course, but that's the gist of it."  
  
"Well that's just petty."  
  
Peter chuckles. "I think so, too. But that's Talia."  
  
"What is an Omega? You said she would cast you out as an Omega; what does that mean?"  
  
Another glass of whiskey is poured, and Peter takes a sip.  
  
"An Omega is a wolf without a pack or an Alpha. They're alone, and if they go too long without pack bonds, they can go feral."  
  
"Wait... she  _wants_ you to go feral?" That seems... dangerous?  
  
"She wouldn't say it out loud, I'm sure. But the intent is there. She allows me just enough contact with the pack to keep it from really happening, and she could  _never_ keep Mother from coming to visit. I get by without going insane." The undertone of bitterness in his voice is strong.  
  
"Shit... that's... that's just..." Stiles slams back the rest of his whiskey, coughs against the burn, and through watering eyes says, "That's fucked up!"  
  
He processes what he's just learned compared to what he knows about the Hale fire. "So let me get this straight: your older sister, your Alpha, is mad at you for taking care of threats against your family, your pack. Threats that had already tried to kill you once, and would probably do it again given half a chance. So she's punishing you by potentially turning you into a dangerous, feral Omega?"  
  
Peter nods. "More or less."  
  
"That's fucked up and also fucking  _stupid."  
  
_"Preaching to the choir, darling."  
  
"But, you said you could say 'no' to her if it's in the best interest of the pack? How come you just didn't tell her 'no' when she basically put you under house arrest? That can't be good for the Pack, can it?"  
  
Peter's grin is sharp. "Well, I did say the Left Hand works from the shadows."  
  
Stiles stares at him for a moment, thinking.  
  
"You're only pretending to obey, aren't you." It's not a question.  
  
"I've found that Talia ignoring my existence has actually been very healthy for the rest of the pack in terms of their safety. I can do a much better job when she's not in the way." His smile fades a bit. "My pack bonds are weak, but they're still my pack, and I'm still the Left Hand. I have to do what I can to protect them."  
  
And that... Stiles  _gets_ that.  
  
Because if anything ever happened to his dad, to Scott, to Melissa? He'd burn the world.  
  
Even if they hated him after.  
  
"How did she find out about me, then? If she ignores you, how does she know who I am?"  
  
Peter takes a deep breath. "That... well, I'm afraid that's a bit of my own fault. I got a little overzealous and may have jumped the gun in terms of our relationship." He gives Stiles a self-deprecating smile. "I'm not sure I want to tell you."  
  
"Well that's reassuring," Stiles says dryly, but dread pools in his stomach. "You're going to tell me anyway."  
  
"You might hate me."  
  
"Probably a bit." Not possible, he thinks.  
  
"I've been forming a mate-bond with you since that first night and she can feel you through the pack-bond."  
  
"Say what now?"  
  
"A mate-bond, Stiles. When I bit you, it started a mate-bond." Stiles lifts his hand and absently traces the mark on his neck. The purple bruising has faded, but the impression of Peter's teeth is still there. Since he hasn't been able to see Peter until, he's taken to touching it constantly, poking at it and feeling weirdly comforted by its presence.  
  
"I'm not going to turn into a werewolf, am I?"  
  
Peter looks away. "No. Only the bite of an Alpha can turn someone."  
  
"So a mate-bond, huh. Sounds important."  
  
"It is." At this, Peter looks back at him. His jaw is set, and his expression is closed-off.  
  
Stiles doesn't like that. He sets his glass down and moves around the breakfast bar to stand in front of the stool Peter sits on.  
  
"I'm going to ask you a few questions and I need you to be completely honest with me, Peter. Otherwise I'm going to make assumptions that might piss me off."   
  
"That's fair."  
  
"First question: does this mate-bond have any kind of mystical control over me?"  
  
Peter snorts. "Absolutely not. I don't get the impression that anything could really 'control' you anyway."  
  
"Flatterer." He moves an inch closer. "Second question: you said you biting me just 'started' a mate-bond. What does that mean?"  
  
Peter takes another sip of his whiskey. "A mating bite has to be done with intent. I hadn't really intended to bite you that first night. I would have preferred to explain things to you first and have your full, willing consent before I did such a thing... but sometimes the wolf wants what it wants, and  _you_ are... irresistible." His eyes flash electric blue as he looks Stiles up and down before meeting his gaze again. "With only a half-formed bond, things can still be broken off, if you want to."  
  
"If  _I_ want to?"  
  
"Yes, darling. If  _you_ want to."  
  
"So I can walk away at any time."  
  
Peter looks like he's swallowed a lemon. "Yes."  
  
"And so can you?"  
  
"No..."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
Peter stands up from his stool, and he crowds Stiles against the side of the breakfast bar, hands resting possessively on Stiles' hips.  
  
"Because I would  _never want to walk away,"_ he hisses out as though it pains him, burying his face against Stiles neck, against the bite mark. He takes a few fortifying breaths, breathing in deep lungfuls of air and Stiles before pulling back a hairsbreadth.  
  
"You have all the power here, Stiles. If you tell me to get lost, I will. If you tell me to stay, I will. If you want me to run naked down Main Street, I will."  
  
"You'd probably do that even without me asking," Stiles says. "You strike me as the type with no shame."  
  
"Well, you're not wrong."  
  
Stiles brings his arms up and rests them loosely across Peter's shoulders. "Third question: is the mate-bond the reason why the sex is so phenomenal?"  
  
Peter laughs softly and rubs his cheek against Stiles' neck, his artful stubble scraping deliciously against the bite. Stiles can't help closing his eyes, goosebumps rising across his skin.  
  
"Oh no, my dear. That's just good old-fashioned chemistry."  
  
"But like, this is moving fast, isn't it? We're moving fast? Isn't that, I dunno, some kind of werewolf voodoo?"  
  
"It's fast yes... We can slow things down if you want to, Stiles. You want me to hit the brakes, and I will. No questions asked."  
  
That is definitely comforting, but Stiles doesn't really want to slow things down.  
  
"Last question for now, and I warn you that I am absolutely serious about the 'for now' because I'm storing up questions like a squirrel stores nuts for winter," Peter snorts as this, "so here goes: is the mate-bond the reason I feel so damn content when I'm with you?"  
  
Silence.  
  
Stiles doesn't like that and he pulls back from Peter a bit so he can look at the other man's face. Peter looks apprehensive.  
  
"Peter?  
  
"Yes and no."  
  
"Well that's not vague  _at all."  
  
_ Peter sighs, takes a deep breath, sighs again. "With wolves, we have pack-bonds where we can feel each other; it's a presence that sits in the back of our minds, even if we're not consciously aware of it. If one of our pack is in danger, we can feel it. If one of our pack is feeling good, we can feel it. It's just an awareness of your pack members and it can keep your pack safe.  
  
"A mating bond is similar, but it's deeper. We can feel each other specifically, single each other out, and share what we're feeling without all the need for awkward talking."  
  
"What, you don't like having feels talks?"  
  
Peter huffs. "Does anyone?"  
  
"Emotionally mature people?"  
  
"Psh, I am evolved beyond such petty things. Feelings give me hives." Stiles snorts in response.  
  
"So, what, we're in a weird feedback loop of good feels?"  
  
"Of a sort. It's... a bit stronger on my end though, since I started the bond, but the longer we spend time together, the stronger it gets. Until the bond is closed or faded, you'll feel more from me than I will from you." His fingers have made their way under the hem of Stiles' shirt, and his thumbs are brushing gently over his hipbones.  
  
"So the reason I felt so content was basically because  _you_ were feeling so content."  
  
"Essentially, yes."   
  
"Damn, and here I thought I was just cum-drunk."  
  
A laugh bursts out of Peter and he tugs Stiles closer. "So romantic, Stiles."  
  
"You know it, boo."  
  
"Please refrain from calling me that ever again."  
  
"Well I _was_ just trying it on for size, but now I think it's here to stay."  
  
"Brat."  
  
***  
  
Stiles is under no illusion that the conversation is completely over. He has  _so many questions;_  about werewolves, about what they're going to do about Talia, about this mate-bond.  
  
But right now, all he wants is to curl up with Peter, safe and secure, and try to salvage the rest of their evening.  
  
They're on the couch, half undressed and making out lazily when Peter stiffens, and not in the fun way. He pulls away from Stiles and turns to look at the door. His head is cocked and his eyes are intent, and if Stiles wasn't still trying to pull himself out of an endorphin-fueled rush- because making out with Peter is not a good way to get him to focus- he'd probably make a dog joke.  
  
"Someone is here," Peter rasps out moments before there's a knock on the door.  
  
God, Stiles hopes it isn't Talia. Peter is on-edge so there seems like there's a chance it could be. They untangle themselves and right their clothes before moving to the door. Stiles stays firmly behind Peter when he opens it.  
  
An unfairly hot man and woman stand on the other side of the door. The guy, Stubbly McStubbleface flashes his eyes at Peter, and the woman follows suit. So, werewolves, then.  
  
"Uncle Peter," the woman says.  
  
"Laura, Derek." If Peter is surprised, he doesn't sound it, but he also doesn't seem displeased. "What brings you here?"  
  
Derek and Laura's gaze snap to Stiles briefly, before they look back at Peter. "I think he should probably leave."  
  
Peter rumbles at that. "Stiles stays. Anything you have to say can be said in front of him."  
  
They look at each other, eyebrows twitching, and  _wow,_ are they having an entire conversation with their eyebrows?  
  
"We need help, Uncle Peter," Derek finally says.   
  
Peter's shoulders stiffen but he stands aside to let his niece and nephew enter.  
  
"Please, do tell."  
  
"It's mom," Laura starts.  
  
"She's... something's wrong with her," Derek finishes.  
  
"Oh, how so?" Peter's tone says he's bored with the conversation, but the stiffness of his body tells a different story.  
  
"Ever since we felt the new pack bond, she's been off," Laura says, looking at Stiles. "She knew it was because of you, and she started obsessing over it, freaking out over who it could be. She... She called Deucalion in for a favor to find out who."  
  
All three wolves present seem to shudder at the mention of the name.   
  
"Um, who's Deucalion?"   
  
"Another Alpha of a... different sort of pack. I'll tell you more, later."  
  
Laura wraps her arms around herself and looks at the ground. "I don't know what he asked in return, but since Monday she's been acting off. We were supposed to meet with Deaton about some of my Alpha training, but she cancelled and wouldn't tell us why. The she started talking about how she was going to be Alpha for a long time and that it's not like I'd ever find that training useful."  
  
Derek is next to speak up. "She also... She snapped at Cora yesterday and nearly broke her arm when Cora said she wasn't going to be at the next full-moon run. I've... I've never seen her do that, and it's not like none of us have never missed a run before." He gets more distressed the longer he speaks and eventually he snaps his mouth closed and can't say anymore.  
  
"And she screamed at all of us that she expects us all to be there even... even  _you_ and she hasn't let you come to a run in years, Uncle Peter," Laura rambles out. "And then we found out she was planning on scaring away your mate before it got too deep, because she 'didn't want some poor thing to feel hurt after' and..." It like her throat closes up and she can't go on. She whimpers.  
  
"We think... We think mom is planning to kill you, Uncle Peter."  
  
Stiles and Peter both stiffen.  
  
Well,  _fuck._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can pry the overused mate-trope from my could dead fingers.


	4. Wait, What?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laura and Derek are here for a reason.

****  
When Stiles wakes up the next morning, he's alone in Peter's bed.  
  
That is not his favorite way to wake up.  
  
Though, he supposes it's better than waking up alone in his  _own_ bed.  
  
That is sad. And depressing.   
  
He stumbles out of bed and aims for the en suite. A pair of sweats and one of Peter's t-shirts is neatly folded on the counter, a note with "Stiles- Went to get breakfast, be back soon" written on it sitting neatly on top. He's sure the grin that spreads across his face is goofy as hell.  
  
After a quick shower- where he mourns the fact that Peter's not with him to wash his back- he hipchecks the door on his way out of Peter's room and flails his way into the kitchen.  
  
Where two very... Hale-y Hales are sitting at the breakfast bar, staring at him.  
  
Oh. Right.  
  
Laura and Derek stayed the night. After the whole  _Grrr Werewolves Are Real_ reveal. After the whole "their mom caught him in a parking lot" thing.  
  
After all of that, everyone had been more than a bit exhausted and upset and not even a bit sure how to proceed.  
  
Peter had wanted to go find Cora and bring her to the apartment as well; Laura tried to call her but the youngest Hale hadn't answered. Before Peter could go on a hunt for her, she texted her older sister to let her know she was safe at their grandmother's house.  
  
Assured that his youngest niece was safe, Peter had put his Laura and Derek up in the guest room and then he and Stiles had collapsed into bed. The mood for bedroom shenanigans had been lost and they just curled up into each other and fell asleep.  
  
And now he's alone with two out of three Hales. Which is going to be his new rating system for things that have the potential to scare him. Fluffy kittens would get zero out of three Hales. Terrifying eyebrows set in a murderface get four out of three Hales.  
  
"Ummm, hey, g'morning." He kind of waves his hand but abandons the gesture to run it through his hair. Yeah, smooth. Smooth like chunky peanut butter. "Peter still out?"  
  
"Yes," Laura answers. "There's coffee."  
  
"Nectar of the gods." He beelines for the pot and digs a cup out of the cabinet. He puts in way too much of Peter's fancy vanilla sugar and copious amounts of the caramel creamer, until his coffee is an oversweet mess.  
  
"Would you like some coffee with your creamer?" Laura asks dryly.  
  
"Some people drink their coffee black. And some people love themselves."  
  
"What about the people that don't like coffee?"  
  
Stiles snorts and takes a seat at the breakfast bar. "They are not to be trusted, and we do not speak of them."  
  
She laughs just a little. "Derek here  _hates_ coffee."  
  
He side-eyes Mr. Grumpy Gills, who has yet to do much more than stare at Stiles from under The Brows of Judgement. His mug is full of tea. "Enjoying your hot leaf juice, heathen?"  
  
Derek just continues to stare. Which, okay, he must be the strong, silent type. Or the strong, intimidating type. Mostly just the intimidating type. Stiles is definitely feeling intimidated. And awkward. So awkward.

Stiles is awkward on a  _good_ day.  
  
So it goes without saying that he is  _so much worse_ on a bad day.  
  
And this is the day  _after_ a bad day, so the higher percentage of awkward still applies.  
  
"So is it normal for your mom to go around threatening people or is this a recent development?"  
  
Which, jeebus-fuck he should not have said that out loud, because suddenly he's under even more  _intense eyebrow scrutiny._ He didn't think they could get that much more judgey.  
  
_He was wrong.  
  
_"Um, sorry, but, I mean, she did kind of threaten me in parking lot last night, so I just want to get a grasp on her level of crazy?" Oh, wait, that wasn't better.  
  
Derek is the first to break the staring contest, and he turns to look at the front door as it's opening; Peter comes strolling in, a large paper sack in his arms. "Really, Uncle Peter? Him?"  
  
Oh, so he's not even gonna be subtle about it, okay, that's fair, Stiles  _was_ just pretty insensitive, but  _ouch._  
  
"Excuse you, I am a delight!"  
  
Derek just turns his eyebrows back on him. "I'm sure you are; to small children and the elderly. They don't know any better."  
  
Before he can say anything back, however, Peter interrupts by plopping a box in front of him. The label declares it's from Ruby's, a diner that serves some of the best breakfast in town (as well as some of the best curly fries.) "Really now, Derek. Stiles has his redeeming qualities."  
  
"Thank you, Peter." He's not at all ashamed of the dopey, triumphant grin that spreads across his face.   
  
"His ass, for example, is absolutely divine."  
  
Laura bursts into laughter as Derek rears his head back with a look of horror.  
  
Stiles just chuckles and opens the box. A full, steaming breakfast of pancakes, sausage, and eggs awaits within. "Mmm, thanks babe." Like the voracious college student he is, he digs in with the gusto of a hyena.  
  
Peter smirks back at him as he unloads three more boxes of food. "The rest of him could use some work, but I think he's almost trainable."  
  
He sticks his tongue out, heedless of the fact his mouth is full. "Rude." Peter caresses the back of his neck as he takes a seat on the stool beside him, then leans over and nuzzles the side of his head; it's nice, so he nuzzles back a bit, instantly forgiving him. Besides, he'll sass him back later. Right now, food.  
  
Laura coos at them from across the breakfast bar. "You two are  _adorable."_  
  
"Not the word I'd use for it." Derek rolls his eyes, but he's smiling faintly.  
  
"Alright then, they're  _sickeningly_ adorable. I might puke," Laura offers, bumping her shoulder against her brother's.  
  
The siblings dig into their breakfast and things feel... lighter.  
  
But not for long.  
  
"I'm quite certain you were much more nauseating with Shawn when I met him last year, Laura," Peter teases back.  
  
Laura freezes, in the middle of taking a bite of pancake. She drops her eyes and sets her fork down. Derek gives her shoulder a squeeze.  
  
Peter catches on. "What happened to Shawn? I thought things were going well."  
  
The two siblings have another of their eyebrow conversations before turning back to Peter and Stiles.  
  
"He broke up with me about three months ago," Laura says softly. "He didn't give me a real reason, just said he didn't think we were going anywhere. I haven't heard from him since."  
  
Peter growls low in his throat. "When we met, you were both talking about bonding. What the hell happened?"  
  
Laura sighs. "Mom has been... she's been paranoid."  
  
"I don't think 'paranoid' is the right word," Derek growls out. He looks up at Peter. "Anybody we try to date or get close to, Mom is there to scare them off. She says it's because she wants to 'make sure they're a right fit for the pack,' but we all know exactly why she's doing it." His tone is bitter and resentful and he looks down at his plate. Laura makes a hurt noise the the back of her throat and leans against his shoulder.  
  
Stiles feels Peter stiffen beside him, and a rumbling growl pulls up out of him from deep in his chest. It rolls over the siblings and Stiles watches as they seem to absorb and calm.  
  
But for Stiles... he feels something like  _rage_ burn through him and he nearly chokes on his next breath at the sensation. He holds his reaction back as best as he can, but for the life of him he feels like  _growling._  
  
"None of that now, pup. Nothing that happened was your fault, and I won't let you think it was."  
  
The words don't mean much to Stiles- though he has an inkling, he puts a pin in that thought so he can ask Peter about it later- but he can tell they mean the world to Derek, because he relaxes just a bit and gives a grateful nod to his uncle.  
  
"So she warned off Shawn, same as she tried to do for Stiles," Peter says after a moment. He looks over at Stiles. "Though in Stiles' case I know it was also because she wants me to be miserable." His voice is bitter, and Stiles can feel it, and he really wishes he could pull Peter back to bed right now and wrap himself around him and keep the rest of the world out.  
  
"What do we do now, though?" Derek asks. He's pushing his food around in its container. "She's our mom  _and_ our alpha. We can't just go against her."  
  
"Let me worry about that, pup. In the meantime, you two are staying here." Peter sets his container aside and stands from his stool. "Have you heard from Cora?"  
  
Derek swallows down the last of his tea. "She called right after you left. She's still at Grammy's, but not for much longer. She wants to stay away from the house until the run."  
  
"If she had her way," Laura snaps, "she wouldn't go to the run at all. None of us would."  
  
Peter runs a hand through his hair, considering. "Mom's house is probably safest for her right now. For all three of you, if we're being honest."  
  
"We're not going to Grammy's, Uncle Peter," Laura says firmly. "We're staying with you and we're going to fix this the way a Pack should."  
  
"Spoken like a future Alpha," Peter replies, only a little bit sarcastic.  
  
"Spoken like a Beta," Laura snaps back. "A Beta who's sick of having an Alpha that is destroying her Pack."  
  
Peter and Derek both go unnaturally still at the words, and Stiles feels a chill go down his spine.  
  
"Laura," Derek starts, only to be cut off by Peter.  
  
"Are you going to challenge her?" Peter asks, voice deceptively soft. Stiles doesn't know what that means, but there is a gravity to Peter's voice that seeps down into his bones; challenging Talia must be something dire.  
  
"No," Laura says. She takes a breath, and looks at her brother.  
  
Derek looks pained, but resolute, as he meets Peter's gaze. "You are."  
  
***  
  
Later, Stiles finds himself once more alone with Peter. They are on their way to Stiles' apartment so he can pick up some things; meeting Talia had thrown a bit of a wrench in his plans the night before. As much as he would  _love_ to wear nothing but Peter's clothes- or just  _nothing_ in general- all weekend, having Peter's family about put a bit of a damper on things.  
  
Laura and Derek had left to go collect Cora. The siblings were insistent they would stay with their Uncle. Peter's mother still lived in Beacon County, in Beacon Heights, the slightly richer counterpart to Beacon Hills; Peter's father had died a few years after the fire, and Stiles learned that even though werewolves had extraordinary healing abilities, some things like old age were still inevitable, and the former Alpha had been considerably older than his wife and mate. Talia had moved her family a few counties further north. The way Peter had explained it was that she had wanted to move further away, but not far enough away that her territory would be taken. Thus, she had left Peter as a sort of placeholder; as long as a wolf with Hale blood was in the territory, it was still hers.  
  
"So, challenging your Alpha is a big deal, I take it?" he asks once they've pulled out of the parking garage. He'd wanted to ask earlier, but Laura and Derek were still reluctant to say too much in front of him. He sort of understand, because  _werewolves_ and he can imagine they don't reveal much about themselves in front of boring old humans.  
  
Peter sighs. "Yes. That's putting it mildly."  
  
"What does it mean though? Do you guys fight? Is it like court proceedings? Do you have werewolf lawyers and judges that oversee werewolf litigation or something?"  
  
"There is a fight. Traditionally to the death."  
  
His heart feels like it seizes in his chest just for a moment. "Oh."  
  
"Oh, indeed."  
  
"That's... that sounds..." He can't even finish the sentence. He doesn't particularly want to think of Peter and a fight to the death in the same thought.  
  
"Wha-" He clears his throat. "What's the point of that? What does challenging her signify?"  
  
Peter doesn't answer for a long time, like he's stewing over his response.   
  
And Stiles is pretty sure the whole "mate-bond" thing is giving him a hell of a lot of insight into Peter's mood. Right now, he's apprehensive, worried, maybe even a little scared. It's weird, but he's not going to lie and say that's it's also not cool to feel what Peter's feeling. It had taken him a bit to realize that some of the "extra" feelings he'd been having all morning hadn't been his, but rather Peter's.   
  
He just doesn't quite know what to do with the extra feelings, not quite yet.   
  
"Challenging your Alpha means you intend to take their place as the Alpha of the Pack," Peter finally says, drawing Stiles out of his wandering thoughts.  
  
"Oh." He thinks for a moment.  
  
"There are typically two ways of becoming the Alpha of a Pack," Peter says softly. "One is by the Alpha spark being passed down from one Alpha to their chosen successor. The Alpha chooses their heir and there is a ritual to ensure the Alpha spark goes to them. Sometimes the Alpha decides to 'retire' and they intentionally pass on the spark while they're still alive, like with my father and Talia; sometimes the Alpha dies and the spark is passed on to the heir.  
  
"The other ways is for another wolf to challenge the Alpha and take the spark by force."  
  
"By killing the Alpha?" A sour taste builds in the back of Stiles' throat as the words leave his mouth.  
  
"If they can."  
  
"Ah." That... he was not okay with; it implied that Peter might not be able to kill his Alpha. That was something that was  _not allowed._ "Are you going to challenge her?"  
  
Peter is quiet so long, Stiles almost thinks he might be willfully ignoring the question.  
  
He doesn't answer until they are pulling up to the curb outside Stiles' apartment building.  
  
"If you had asked me twelve years ago, I would have challenged Talia in a heartbeat," he says lowly.   
  
"And now?" He's almost afraid of the answer.   
  
"I don't know. When Talia was made Alpha, I was only nineteen and  _hated_ her. I resented my father for choosing her. He had already chosen her before I was even born. I was young enough and dumb enough that if anyone had planted the idea of challenging her in my head, I probably would have done it immediately. And I probably wouldn't have been a much better Alpha than she." He takes a deep breath as he guides his car around a turn. "I was more interested in the power of an Alpha, not in actually  _being_ Alpha."  
  
Stiles doesn't know what the say to that. Well, he has a few ideas, but he knows that whatever he says isn't going to be what he actually means. So he stays quiet. Look at him, being all emotionally mature and considerate.  
  
They're quiet on the way up to the apartment. Stiles doesn't even freak out about the state of his abode; he'd cleaned it up a little the other day, but it still definitely screams "irresponsible college student" to an outsider. Peter doesn't comment, but Stiles is pretty sure he's side-eyeing the pile of dishes in the sink and the veritable  explosion of books that cover almost every surface of his living-room-slash-bedroom. Honestly, the only redeeming thing about the whole place is the floor-to-ceiling windows- at least when he's not accidentally stripping for the old woman in the apartment across from his- which are home to a couple dozen bargain-bin houseplants he saved from death. He doesn't know where he picked up a green thumb, probably from his mom, but at some point during freshman year, he picked up a sad little ivy plant at Wal-Mart and somehow it turned into him having a small jungle.  
  
He trips over a pile of books and Peter laughs at him.  
  
"I'm pretty certain there is a wonderful invention called a 'bookshelf' that is used to house books," he drawls out.  
  
Okay, so maybe he  _does_ comment on the books. Thankfully he ignores the dishes.  
  
"And now that your finals are over, I take it you're going to be busy catching up on housework?"   
  
Ruuuuuuuude. He blows a raspberry at Peter and heads for the sink. "Well, I was going to offer to blow you, seeing as we're not going to be alone when we get back to your place, but I guess since you're soooo concerned with the dishes-"  
  
Seriously, Peter shutting him up with kisses is the best kind of distraction.  
  
***  
  
Stiles' futon is uncomfortable as hell.  
  
Which is why he's totally using Peter as a body-pillow between him and the thin mattress that covers the wooden slats. The post-orgasmic haze is also a nice buffer, as is the grounding slide of Peter's skin against his. Peter is also letting out that rumbly purr he likes so much.   
  
Stiles lets out a full-body sigh and wishes he could burrow into this level of contentment forever.  
  
"If I were even half as much of a selfish bastard," Peter rumbles out, "I'd probably tell you this is too dangerous for you to be involved."  
  
"Oh, well I suppose it's a good thing you're a completely selfish bastard then."  
  
"I'd tell you to stay here, to let things blow over, until it was safe."  
  
"I'm preeeeeetty sure it's a little too late for that." Stiles tugs at one of Peter's arms until it's snugly tucked around him.  
  
"I'd make up some excuse for why we couldn't be together. I'm sure it would be appropriately dramatic." Peter pulls him even closer, his arms like warm, iron bands; Stiles just melts against him.  
  
"I'd advise against that; I feed on drama, and it would probably just make me do something stupid and impulsive."  
  
"Well, we can't have that now, can we."  
  
"Absolutely not. For the greater good, you should continue to be a selfish bastard." Stiles nuzzles his face against Peter's neck and takes a deep breath. He swears he's picking up all kinds of bad habits from Peter, who frankly smells amazing.  
  
"I'll do my best, darling."  
  
***  
  
Eventually they drag themselves out of bed and get redressed. It's somewhere around two in the afternoon, and Peter has already texted Laura; she and Derek picked up Cora and they would be back in Beacon Hills in the next hour or so.  
  
Stiles has a bag packed and is watering his plants before they go; Peter is providing commentary and pinching at his ass while he threatens to dump the watering can on his head. He is a good plant-dad and he is not going to neglect his babies completely. The playfulness oozing through the bond makes it about eighty percent less annoying than it should be. Peter's grin takes care of the other twenty percent.  
  
He supposes he should take it as a compliment that he's distracting enough to Peter that the werewolf doesn't sense someone coming to his door until they're knocking loudly.  
  
"You home, son?" is called out moments before the lock is clicking and the door is swinging open to show his father, in full uniform, carrying a bag from the local bakery. "I brought cake from that place on Jefferson- oh."  
  
Well, Stiles knew he'd eventually have to tell his dad about Peter, but he didn't expect it to be when Peter is groping his ass. Thank god it happened when it did, though, because Stiles has been contemplating pinning the werewolf to the futon and riding him for all he was worth. Five more minutes and his dad would have seen more than a father should ever see of his son.  
  
"Uhh, hey, daddio. What's good?" He swats Peter's hand off his ass and the motion just draws attention to the groping.  
  
Noah Stilinksi looks between Stiles and Peter and back again. Then he sighs and rubs at his forehead like he has a headache coming on.  
  
"It had to be the werewolf, didn't it."   
  
Wait, what?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was kind of a filler chapter, more than anything. I've been writing a sentence or two, here and there, in between working full-time and other projects. I can't commit to a firm update schedule, but I've got outlines for how things are going to pan out, so updates should at least be semi-regular. I've already started on the next chapter!


End file.
